


By the Sword: A Wish in Winter

by JR_Castle



Series: By the Sword [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Brotherhood, Fantasy, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Justice, Moral Ambiguity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23642458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JR_Castle/pseuds/JR_Castle
Summary: A childhood mishap gives Jon Snow a more intimate relationship with violence. In a world ruled by tyrants, where cruelty is the rule and war the expectation, will this lowly bastard join the bloodbath or find something else to fight for? AU with no White Walkers and a slightly OOC Jon gallivanting all over the Seven Kingdoms (and beyond).PART 1: As a bastard, Jon Snow felt destined to ride north and find what little honor he could among the unsavory brothers of the Night's Watch. But one act of pity changes everything, and when it does, Jon might have to rethink all those truths he's always lived by.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Ghost & Jon Snow, Grenn & Jon Snow, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Benjen Stark, Jon Snow & Bran Stark, Jon Snow & Ned Stark, Jon Snow & Robb Stark, Maester Aemon & Jon Snow, Tyrion Lannister & Jon Snow
Series: By the Sword [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702051
Comments: 4
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU where the White Walkers do not invade the Seven Kingdoms. It will focus exclusively on Jon and his adventures. I've researched what I can in leu of rereading the books or rewatching the show, and while this story will include many canonical plot elements, I'll be taking a lot of liberties with the source material.

They'd been allowed to begin their martial training a year earlier than most. That's what Ser Rodrik told them, anyway. At five years old, Jon and Robb were strong enough to hold the smallest practice swords available to them. That, and the two had been pestering their lord father about it for as long as they'd been able to.

The first day went rather slow. Ser Rodrick taught them the proper grip, how to hold an even stance, and all the other foundational basics, basics which both boys grasped only after several repeated urgings. They were made to run a small lap around the yard, as well as a few other exercises. Nothing truly taxing, of course; just a taste of the coming years, Ser Rodrik said.

Finally, the boys were padded with layers of leather and set against each other, much to their delight. All their earlier training was forgotten, of course—any semblance of form, what little of it they'd learned, replaced with the same sort of frenzied whacking the two had as of yet played with whenever they happened to find sturdy enough sticks.

Their father was there, watching from the sidelines, and Robb's mother was there too, holding baby Sansa on her lap. Some others were there as well—Jory and a few other guardsmen, the steward Vayon Poole, Mikken the blacksmith. Even Maester Lewin and Old Nan were there. Winterfell's boys had finally come of a certain age, and the spectacle was worth a jest or two, especially when their first duel turned into more of a waddling match than any real test of skill.

Regardless, Jon and Robb had a good time of it, even as the adults laughed at their harmless whacking. The adults kept chuckling all through it, even as the boys seemed to grow harsher in their competition, wooden swords coming down with a rising note of force. And then, Robb uttered a cry, falling on the ground. Their father rose to his feet. Robb's mother was already on her way to them, Sansa dropped into Maester Lewin's waiting arms. Jon, thinking it a game, kept on whacking.

By the time Jon realized Robb wouldn't get back up, by the time he began to stop in sudden, scared confusion, Lady Catelyn was already pushing him roughly off her son. The glare she sent him then, filled with a disdain black as ink, was one Jon would remember for the rest of his life. Though this feeling had always bubbled in the back of his mind, it was the first time Jon had experienced such a clear strike against the safety of his home. It was the first time he ever truly felt as if he did not belong in Winterfell.

Robb was crying, holding his cheek. A purple blot had begun to grow upon it, Jon noticed, his stomach sickening. It had popped into existence at the touch of his sword. Their eyes met, and Jon saw that Robb was scared of him still.

Lady Catelyn cooed to him, holding her son close. As Ser Rodrik neared, she whispered into Robb's ear, and being close, Jon could just make out her words.

_Cry not, my child. Cry not. Be strong. You can be strong. He can only hurt._

_He can only hurt._

_He can only hurt._

At four and ten, Jon sat in the godswood, back against the tall weirwood tree. The sun had just set, and night slowly encroached on the last visages of orange light.

Ghost lay alongside him, red eyes silently staring out at the pond before them, at the hawthorns, the ironwoods, and the orange leaves which fell from them to rest lazily on the still water. Jon watched these leaves fall too, thinking all the while on the Stark words with a wry light. _Winter is coming, and I am leaving._

Well, that had hardly been decided, but Jon knew it all the same. The king had come to Winterfell to take his father South. He didn't know what would come of his half-siblings, but he did know Lady Catelyn would not suffer him if his father wasn't there to justify it. It was something he figured was always bound to happen—one day, once he was no longer a child, he would have to go. Winterfell could hardly stomach a bastard, much less one fully grown.

He knew that day would come, but now at the precipice of its arrival, he found it unreal all the same. Jon Snow wouldn't find a home in Winterfell. But where else could a Snow find a home in? Was there anywhere in the North? Anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms? Anywhere at all?

Jon thought to join the Night's Watch. His uncle Benjen was coming, would be there at the feast. He would ask then if he could ride north and take the black. It was all he could think to do, save sell his sword or earn his chains in Oldtown. But there was no honor in mercenary work, and Jon had never been particularly thrilled for Maester Luwin's lessons. The Night's Watch was an honorable calling. It defended the realms of men. It was more than enough for a bastard.

And yet…

And yet, as Jon stared down at the pond, finding his reflection, a part of him, small and soft, considered that he would not think to take the black if he didn't feel the need to. If he wasn't trapped in a corner, without options, maybe it wouldn't sound like enough. He put a hand on Ghost. The wolf had grown, still small, but a pup no more.

Ghost raised his head and looked not at Jon, but somewhere behind. Jon begun to turn his head as well, and his cheek was struck by a blueberry.

Jon grunted while Ghost licked up the fallen fruit, gobbling it in one bite. Behind, Robb chuckled, holding a small pile of them in one hand, popping one in his mouth with the other. At his feet, Robb's direwolf Grey Wind ambled on towards his brother.

"Food's almost ready," Robb said. "I thought I might come find you in case you wanted to sneak a pastry out. Fresh off the oven."

"Not today," Jon said. "And I think you'd better not either. I imagine your lady mother should be extra strict tonight."

"Oh, what's a few spankings?"

Grey Wind nudged at Ghost's side, pouncing, jumping side to side. Ghost only looked on silently, until the other wolf nipped at his ear. Then the two were off, chasing each other around the trees.

Jon stood. Robb threw him another blueberry, one he caught and ate this time. "I suppose you'll be feasting with the royal family, while I sit with the men down the hall."

"Lucky you," Robb said, pushing his shoulder. The two began walking towards the gate, the castle looming high behind it already lit up with torchlight. "Don't spread this around, but they're all rather underwhelming."

"Really? What about the Kingslayer?"

"Oh, he's very intimidating from all the way in the corner of the room. I'll expect that to be his place at dinner as well, if the king has anything to say about it."

Jon remembered the brief look he'd had of Jamie Lannister. Though the man's infamy preceded him, he'd looked the part of a true knight.

"Perhaps royalty's all talk after all."

"Well, the princess seems sweet, and her mother's a real beauty," Robb said. "And the Imp has wit for someone so short."

The two laughed, crossing the gate. The castle grounds filled with the marching of guards, the rabble of men and women, all of them carrying something or other into or out from the castle. The king had brought a full company, and Jon had never seen Winterfell so busy.

On the way, they came across Sansa and their little sister Arya, who were being led along by Septa Mordane into the castle. Jeyne Poole was with them, and Sansa giggled along with her friend while Arya walked at the back of the group, arms crossed and brows drawn together. Two more direwolves followed the girls, perking up at the sight of their brothers.

Arya's wolf Nymeria immediately shot towards Ghost and Grey Wind, while Sansa's seemed content to sit and watch the three nip and bark at each other. The girls turned to see their arrival, and Septa Mordane's face grew pink.

"Will you please quiet those beasts?" she said, raising her skirts and shuffling back. "We can't have them scaring our guests!"

"Lady is very well behaved," Sansa said, chin raised.

"Yes, but these other three…"

"I'll take them to the kennels," Jon said, crouching to gather them in his arms. The three wolves began licking at his face, and he smiled. "You can all go get ready for your grand entrance."

He saw Arya set her frown on him. The gown she'd been forced to wear for the king's welcoming was now a dirt-smeared, crumpled bundle of cloth. "You're lucky, Jon," she said, holding her arms out. "I have to change into another one of these stupid things."

"Only because you ruined the one you already had!" Sansa said. Arya blew her a raspberry, and Sansa turned to Jeyne, sharing a sigh and a shake of the head with her friend.

Watching them only incensed Arya further, and she kicked dirt up at Sansa's own dress. The older girl stumbled back, crying out like she'd stepped on excrement.

"Arya!" Septa Mordane said, clamping her hand on the girl's wrist. "That's not how a lady should behave!"

"I'm not a lady…" Arya muttered.

"We can both agree on that!" Sansa said, glaring.

Robb stepped in, having watched the proceedings with the kind of exasperation which only came with years of repeated disappointment. "Alright, alright," he said, hands held out. "Arya, get changed already. _Please_? Before mother comes out here and scolds all of us?"

After a moment, Arya nodded, scowling.

"Will you take her, Septa?"

"It's what I'm here for, after all. "Septa Mordane sighed, loosening her grip. "If you'll excuse me, my lord."

The two left, walking steadily into the castle. Robb turned to Sansa.

"She's a little beast!" Sansa said, hands fisted at her sides.

"Always has been, always will be," Jeyne said, quick to please.

Robb put a hand on his face, looking down at Jon, who could only shrug. "You know her, Sansa," he said. "Don't be too hard."

"You always take her side," Sansa said, huffing. With a quick turn of the heel, she walked into the castle as well, Jeyne following. As she left, the boys could hear her muttering to her friend. "Think the prince would see this? Ugh! I'll have to change too, now!"

The boys watched them dissapear into Winterfell's halls. Jon took the time to reflect on how neither had once so much as glanced his way.

"I imagine it'll be like this until they both grow up a bit," Robb said, sighing. "That or until we marry them off."

"And I'm sure Arya will be thrilled when _that_ happens," Jon said.

"Well, it'll be father's problem anyhow." Robb held a hand out to him. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

Jon took the offered hand, pulling himself up. "Of course, my lord."

That earned him a push of the shoulder. "Damn you, Snow," Robb said, turning around. "Try not to drink too much wine behind father's back."

"I'll save you some, Stark."

"Ha! No need to lie."

Jon waved at his retreating back. Then, he looked down at the direwolves, who sat looking up at him, tongues lolling. "Now for you three… Four?" He saw Lady, who had apparently stayed by him, somehow knowing not to follow Sansa inside even without an order. When their eyes met, the direwolf raised its head proudly, padding towards him while doing its best to ignore his presence all the while just as its owner would.

It wasn't the first time he'd noticed the strange intelligence held by their wolves, but he was unnerved nonetheless. Sometimes, when he took it upon himself to talk to Ghost out of some playful whim, it seemed to him that the albino's red eyes sparkled with understanding at each word. Like if he could, Ghost would talk back.

When he reached the kennels, the direwolves snapping playfully at his ankles, Jon was surprised to find the two he wasn't leading already there. Summer lay calmly by one corner while Shaggydog barked the hounds into the other, terrifying a whole pack of dogs who were each at least twice his size.

"Hark, Jon!"

As his charges ran in to join their brothers, Jon looked up to see his little brother Bran sitting on the kennel's low overhang, legs kicking off the edge.

"Hark, Bran," he said, hands on his hips. "I assume you're the one who led these two here?"

"That's right."

"Thank you. And I thought you've been told not to climb onto roofs anymore?"

"You won't tell, will you?" Bran said, grinning.

Jon smiled back. "I suppose not. As long as you don't tell that I didn't."

"It's a deal, then!"

Jon watched the wolves play amongst themselves. Summer stood to greet his siblings with the usual pounce. Even Lady joined in, as shy as she seemed when it came to roughhousing. The only one among them who didn't partake was Ghost, who watched the rest with frank, red eyes. It's what Ghost always did when all the direwolves were together. Jon wondered if his friend felt lonely, just watching.

"You should be going back, Bran. Your siblings are getting ready."

Bran threw himself back, groaning. "I'd rather stay up here. Not like _I_ have to escort anyone in."

"Jealous of Robb? I suppose anyone would like a princess on their arm…"

Bran shot up. "I'm not jealous!"

"I could go ask him to trade places with you. I'm sure the princess wouldn't mind."

"No! Don't!" Bran heaved, face red. He hopped down from the overhang and landed with his hands to help break the fall. It was a dexterous fall, like a cat dropping onto sure and steady paws. "I'll go!"

Without another word, Bran ran off to the castle. Jon watched him go, smile waning the farther away he got. He listened to the direwolves barking and snarling and yipping, turning to Ghost, whose red eyes had come up to stare at his own. The two regarded each other for a moment.

"Interested in coming to a feast?"

Ghost stood. This time, Jon wasn't unnerved. He was just glad to have some company.

The yard was quiet and empty. A lone sentry stood high on the battlements of the inner wall, his cloak pulled tight around him against the cold. He looked bored and miserable as he huddled there alone, but Jon would have traded places with him in an instant. Otherwise the castle was dark and deserted. The sounds of feasting still carried out to them in the yard, and it was those sounds Jon had sought to escape from.

He'd prepared himself for it, but watching his family aligned without him had hurt. It had hurt as much as it always did whenever any other noble house came for a visit. He thought he'd gotten used to it by now, had become rather numbed. But knowing it would be the last time… something in him had crumbled.

Jon wiped away his tears on the sleeve of his shirt, furious that he had let them fall, and turned to go.

"Boy," a voice called out to him. Jon turned.

He looked up at Tyrion Lannister, who stood up on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall. Jon wondered, face flushed, if the dwarf had seen him cry.

"Is that animal a wolf?" the Lannister asked.

"A direwolf," Jon said. "His name is Ghost."

Said direwolf looked up at Tyrion just as its owner did, examining the small man with the same curiosity he examined everything else.

"What are you doing up there?" Jon asked. "Why aren't you at the feast… um, my lord?"

He'd almost forgotten himself in his shock. The man might not look like much, and what little there was to look at was rather grotesque, but Tyrion was still a lord and the queen's brother besides.

The dwarf snorted. "Too hot, too noisy, and I'd drunk too much wine," he said. "I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?"

Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?"

"Oh, bleed that," the little man said. He pushed himself off the ledge into empty air. Jon gasped, then watched with awe as Tyrion Lannister spun around in a tight ball, landed lightly on his hands, then vaulted backward onto his legs.

Ghost backed away from him uncertainly.

The dwarf dusted himself off and laughed. "I believe I've frightened your wolf. My apologies."

"He's not scared," Jon said, somewhat cross. He still felt some of what his uncle Benjen had told him, about how he was still too young for the Night's Watch. He knelt and called out. "Ghost, come here. Come on. That's it."

The wolf pup padded closer and nuzzled at Jon's face, but he kept a wary eye on Tyrion, and when the dwarf reached out to pet him, he drew back and bared his fangs in a silent snarl.

"Shy, isn't he?" Tyrion said.

Now Jon's anger was turning into something like shame. He might not think the best of the Lannisters, but that was no reason for one to get mauled by a direwolf. Sighing, he lay a hand on Ghost's head, calming him. "Well… He's still young."

Tyrion's smile softened a tad, and Jon realized that, kneeling as he was, the two were at eye level for the first time. He remained there, petting Ghost until the little beast hid its canines once more.

"We all are, at one point or another," the dwarf said. He held out a hand. "I am Tyrion Lannister, by the way. I suppose that's rather obvious."

Jon eyes the hand, both in apprehension and in surprise at its diminutive size. "Yes it is… I mean, not that you…" He fidgeted in place while Tyrion chuckled.

"Not too many men so short here in the North, I take it?" Tyrion said.

"Not many, no." Jon shook the offered hand, if only to save himself the embarrassment. "Jon."

"Yes, Eddard Stark's bastard." Tyrion raised a brow when Jon flinched back at the deduction. "Sorry, did I offend you? It seems we're both prone to a lack of tact." He grinned. "If it makes you feel better, I see you have more of the North in you than your brothers."

"Half-brothers," Jon corrected, almost automatically. "… But thank you, I guess."

"See? We're fast friends!" Tyrion leaned close, putting a hand on Jon's shoulder. Ghost perked up at that, though he didn't pounce with Jon's hand still weighing on his pelt. "So let me give you some counsel, bastard," the dwarf said said. "Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you."

If it were any other time, he might've felt condescended to. But it seemed to Jon then that, despite the sharp words, perhaps the Imp had felt an inkling to escape the feast just as he had, for similar reasons.

"I don't suppose you've some experience in such matters…"

Smiling, Tyrion heaved air out, sighing rather melodramatically. Jon fought the urge to smile himself, a losing battle.

"All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes," Tyrion said, "so you see, Snow, if I were you I'd at least appreciate the legs your old gods blessed you with. Much less irritating than these stumpy things of mine." He smirked. "Of course, that's not to say anything about what's between them!"

He laughed, and Jon found himself chuckling along. Ghost, seemingly bored of their chatter, walked off somewhere, around the corner. The two watched the wolf leave, their laughter gently waning, and Jon to his surprise thought that it wasn't all that bad to be left alone with the Lannister.

"And what brings you out here, then?" Tyrion asked. "It didn't take me long to grow tired of my family's company, but I'd have thought a northern feast would have enough to entertain a boy your age."

Jon looked toward the windows. He could still see the people inside dancing and drinking and eating. He could still hear the music and the rabble, though those sounds had long faded to his ears and were only now rising back up with his attention.

"I'm not much for feasts," he said.

"Oh, so you'd rather wallow in solitude?" Tyrion clicked his tongue, backing away and turning to the windows himself. "Well, there are those types too. Your father isn't having any more fun in there than you were, I imagine. He seems rather dull."

Jon was almost offended, but he tempered the heat that threatened to crawl up to his face. He was slowly coming to understand that Tyrion's barbs were only sharp if he honed them when listening.

"Lord Stark merely takes his duties seriously."

Tyrion fixed him with an unimpressed stare. Jon looked away.

"… Though I admit he can be… a bit dry, sometimes."

"Good!" Tyrion said, grinning. "You're not hopeless after all!" Laughing, the dwarf walked towards the door. "Well then, this has been wonderful, but I'm afraid I've managed to sober up enough for another cup of wine. I don't imagine you'll join me?"

Jon was tempted. But the thought of going back inside and seeing his family arrayed up in the high table, complete and whole and lacking nothing in his absence, made the decision for him. He stood, holding a hand up in farewell. "Not this time, my lord. I find myself growing sleepy."

Tyrion shrugged, standing on tiptoe to pull the door open. "In that case, good night to you, Snow. Try not to make that scowl permanent."

The dwarf went inside as Jon brought a hand to his forehead, rubbing the space between his eyes. The feasting grew loud as the door opened, then muted once more as it closed. He stood there, alone in the yard. Then he yawned.

The next day, Jon went to Mikken to procure a gift.

It had cost him all the coin he had, not that Jon minded much. He wouldn't have need of it at the Wall, and picturing Arya's face upon getting it was worth the money anyway.

It was what he imagined even as he ran into the actual person just as he stepped out of the forge.

"Watch it Jon! I'm—"

Whatever the girl had been about to say was interrupted by the direwolf which leaped up at her from behind, knocking her down. Jon watched, chuckling as Arya wrestled Nymeria off her.

"She's already reached your size, little sister," he said, offering a hand.

Arya scowled up at him, but she took it all the same. Jon noted the disheveled hair, already stringy so early in the morning after what he was sure had been a great effort on Septa Mordane's part.

"I'm not that small," she muttered. Nymeria began circling the two, at times pouncing, still in play. Arya pushed her away with her foot, but the wolf only started gnawing softly on her boot. "What're you doing here so early anyway?"

"I could ask the same of you," Jon said, walking off.

He heard her footsteps following after him, relieved to know she hadn't gone in to see Mikken just as the man had gotten started on what should be a surprise.

"I decided to go exploring! Nymeria still hasn't seen the crypts," Arya said.

"I don't know how much a direwolf would appreciate a tour like that," Jon said. He narrowed his eyes at her. "And shouldn't you be with Sansa, entertaining the princess?"

Arya scowled at that, hands fisting at her sides. "And spin thread all day? No thanks. All those two ever talk about are stupid things, and Sansa can't shut up about Joffrey."

Jon hummed. "Your mother won't like this," he said even as he began walking toward the crypts.

"Mother doesn't like anything I do anyway," Arya said simply, then ran ahead, Nymeria behind her.

Jon watched them go, following at his own pace, and he warred with the part of him that had felt happy to hear her say that. He didn't want Arya to resent her mother—at least, he knew he shouldn't want it. But having Lady Catelyn come down so hard on her youngest daughter had been part of why he and Arya had grown so close in the first place.

Arya stopped at the old ironwood door, turning back to him, waiting, tapping her feet. Nymeria seemed to have calmed down some, though the wolf still walked along the nearby lychfield, strolling through the weathered, forgotten posts which marked the bodies which had by now surely turned to dust. Nearby, the First Keep loomed along with the broken tower, battered stone gargoyles lining it in rings. Looking up at it, Jon thought he saw something on its mossy walls, before it disappeared around the bend. Perhaps a squirrel, or one of the many bats that surely resided its abandoned interior?

"Hurry up, Jon!"

He looked to Arya, smiling. "What's the matter, little sister? Open up for us."

She crossed her arms. "Ha ha. You know it's too heavy for me."

He reached the door, both hands coming to push against it. "As always, your big brother will have to pick up the slack," he said, and she stuck out her tongue at him. With a deep breath, Jon pushed, digging his feet against what he knew to be remarkably rusted hinges.

Much to his surprise, it slid open without much trouble. He stumbled inside, almost falling. Arya followed soon after, Nymeria on her heels. The morning light slipped in, a lone beacon against the deep shadows which hid the crypt walls from view.

At least, that's what Jon had been expecting. Instead, he found a crypt lit softly by something far into the corridor, and realized belatedly that it must be candlelight. Generations of candles, all under generations of Starks, each of their stoic faces carved for all time under Winterfell's mighty walls.

"Someone's here already," Jon said, thinking out loud. It was a rare thing to see the crypt already occupied, so he turned around. "We should—"

"No one _ever_ comes here!" Arya said, whispering, striding in. Nymeria yipped as she followed, and Jon cringed at the sound as it echoed through the otherwise silent corridor.

Sighing, he closed the door behind him, and the crypt took on the orange hue of candles against the shadows which creeped at its every corner. He went after his sister, anxious at having interrupted whoever was clearly inside. This anxiety only increased when, upon turning the corner, he saw that the person they'd interrupted wore a crown.

Jon's eyes went to the gold immediately, its ring of antlers glinting in the candlelight. King Robert Baratheon at the feet of Rickard Stark, or rather _on_ the feet, his great bulk turned from this statue towards the opposing wall, facing the other statue there. A statue of Arya's aunt Lyanna, stood over a stone coffin. A torch sat carelessly on the dust-coated floor beside him, burning still, joined by a flagon.

Both children, upon seeing the shaded figure of such a man, made to step out as quickly as they'd come. Even Arya, hardheaded or not, knew when to leave some things alone. But before either of them could, the king had already glanced over.

"Who goes there?" the man said, shooting to his feet. His voice boomed, echoing during the brief moment of silence that followed.

Jon and Arya froze, looking at each other.

The king stepped forward. "I can see you!" he said, demanding.

Seeing that his sister had well and truly frozen up, Jon cleared his throat, almost choking.

"Your grace, it is Arya Stark and… company." Jon put a hand on his sister's shoulder, to clam himself as much as her. "We're sorry for the sudden entrance."

The king looked at them, still. Then, a great huff of air later, he plopped back down on his improvised seat. "Ah, Ned's girl. I thought some mongrel finally came to kill me." Robert laughed, a low, fading thing. "Well don't stand there in the dark. Come, let me have a look at my would-be assassins."

Jon and Arya stayed in place for a moment more, before the former pushed the latter gently into the light, toward the king. They neared him, stopping a few arm lengths away. Nymeria, for once, was silent, having seemingly cowed under the mood.

Robert looked them over, his eyes resting on Arya, who for her part stared back with her chin raised. He smiled. "What's this then? Are you being dragged through catacombs against your will? Should I call my guard to come rescue you?"

Although he knew it was said in jest, Jon's hand snapped from Arya's shoulder to his side, and his head hung low, eyes on the ground.

Arya shook her head, cheeks tinting red in the soft orange light. "No, it was my idea to come here. Jon even tried to stop me!"

A lie, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

Robert waved his hand, the other coming down to grab his flagon. He took a large swig, some drops of wine spilling onto his jerkin. When he was done, he let out a heavy breath.

"Don't worry, girl, I'm not about to get anyone in trouble for coming down here," he said. "Fuck's sake, _I_ probably shouldn't be down here. Not so early in the day at least." He looked at her, brow raised. "And what would a lady be doing in a place like this anyhow? Shouldn't you be frolicking about with my daughter?"

Arya glared at him, hands balling into fists. "I'm no lady! And your daughter's as boring as Sansa. I'd much rather hang around these statues!"

The king broke into laughter, nearly dropping his flagon. He bent low to put it down, slapping his thigh in the meanwhile.

Seeing him like this, Jon was reminded of the king he'd seen the day before. The one who seemed more at home with a goblet in hand than with a war hammer, and a woman in either case. Then, the laughter broke, slowing in strange hesitance.

"You're no lady, I'll give you that," Robert said, scratching at his thick beard. He began combing through it, voice growing low. "Very much like your aunt. I'm sure you'd have gotten on quite well with her."

For the first time, Arya turned sideways at the statue of Lyanna. Jon followed her gaze, and the two looked at the dead Stark woman. Nymeria had laid down before it, tail waving lazily under its feet. The statue, face cold and stern, stared emptily at the three of them. Jon examined the contours of this carved face. It looked back at him with supreme stillness, and despite its age, he thought it very beautiful.

"Was it true that you loved her?" Arya said.

Jon turned back to the king, tepid. Of course, he'd heard the rumors as much as anyone.

"… Yes." The king rubbed his eyes, slouching against his knees. "She'd have been my wife too, if not for that thrice-damned dragon and his mad father." Sighing, he reached for his flagon again. "We'd have been related then. A king for an uncle. Not a bad thought, hm?" He drank, then wiped his lips. "But… some things escape us."

Neither Jon or Arya knew quite what to say to that. The silence which followed was rather uncomfortable, and Arya begun to turn, likely to say her goodbyes and walk away. Before she could, the kind's voice came echoed again in the dark and narrow corridor.

"You, boy," the king said, and Jon stilled, for he hadn't expected to be acknowledged in any sense. "You're Ned's son, am I right? The bastard."

Jon fought to keep a straight face at the word, and at the man who'd said it. He looked down at Arya, who shrugged, and steeled himself, clearing his throat once more.

"T-That's right, your grace. Eddard Stark is my father."

The king stared at him, eyes half-lidded in a rather bored expression. Or, Jon thought, perhaps the wine had just begun weighing on the man's attention. "I'm told you're to go north to that blasted wall and join those celibate icicles?"

"… I've thought to, your grace," Jon said. When the king didn't say anything more, he felt the need to fill the silence. "The Night's Watch is an honorable order. Even someone like me can be something of value there."

The king laughed. "Boy, you'll find nothing in that frozen waste other than a few rapists holding out against barbarians."

Jon felt his face flush. Before he could say anything, Arya rose to his defense. "Even if that's true, Jon's good enough to outweigh all those men put together! The Night's Watch would be lucky to have him!"

Looking down at her, Jon felt touched, despite the circumstances. He made to ruffle her hair, but decided against it, seeing as she likely wouldn't appreciate it in present company.

The king, for his part, stopped laughing. He glanced at Jon again, humming. "If that's true, you'd really be better off somewhere else," he said. "Trust me, boy, not much happens north of here other than the occasional wildling killing. You're yet young. Spending the rest of your life in some giant ice block, waiting for your balls to freeze off, that's no way for a man to live." Robert drank again, and his eyes went to nowhere in particular. He seemed to stare through the walls, into nothing. "Every man should know love... Even if it ruins him later."

Nymeria got up. She padded over to Arya, who bent down to pet her head, then began walking back toward the entrance.

"Look at that. Even the dog grows bored of me," the king said, smiling, voice bellowing once more. "Well before you go, tell me something, boy. Has your father finally gotten himself a headsman, or does he still do the bloody work himself?"

Jon had by now abandoned whatever curiosity he might have for the king's motives. Now, he only wanted to go back to his room, or find Ghost. Whatever got him out of this corpse-infested place, where he could almost feel the ghosts flowing between the walls. "Lord Stark needs no headsman. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, so he says."

It was always a grisly scene to watch, but Jon had made himself stop looking away at it whenever his father brought him to a beheading. He still remembered the first time he saw Ice swing down, its Valyrian steel rippling in the sunlight, slipping through flesh and bone and red, the body dropping loose, blood oozing in pools onto the grass. He'd looked away, that first time, and his father had for the only time in his life been truly disappointed in him. It hadn't been a disappointment he'd been eager to deserve again.

"I shouldn't have asked," The king said, chuckling. "Of course he does. Bloody stubborn, that man. But a good killer."

Jon's face reddened again, and this time he couldn't help the outburst. "My father's no killer!"

Robert looked at him, brow raised in surprise. Jon looked at Arya, who was just as shocked. He realized then that he'd been louder than he meant to be. Coughing, he bowed his head. "Sorry, your grace. It's just... Lord Stark merely does his duty. He doesn't like to kill. He's told me himself."

The king grunted. "No, I'm at fault. I don't mean to insult your father. Gods know he's the best damn friend I've got in this fucking place." Slowly, he sipped at his flagon, then looked into it. Apparently, it was empty. He dropped it, and the tin container clattered onto the ground, scaring Nymeria. "Don't misunderstand me, boy. That he doesn't like to kill is what _makes_ him a good killer. Not many of those. Much better than a bad one, and those aren't hard to come by. It's something to remember for when it's your turn to cut a man down."

Jon frowned. "Why should I cut anyone down?"

"Damned if I know!" the king laughed, a hand on his belly. "Why, haven't you trained in arms?"

"Yes." Jon looked away, "Lord Stark saw fit to have Ser Rodrik teach me along with Robb. In that sense, I'm very fortunate."

"Fortunate indeed," the king said, his laugh waning. "Don't ask me why, boy, but you steel yourself for it. At the Wall or somewhere else, if there's anything to know for certain about a man trained in the sword it's that he'll kill."

After a moment of silence, the king waved them out. "Alright, now leave me be. I'm sure someone will call for me sooner or later. I'd rather have a moment's peace before then, if you don't mind."

"I… Yes, of course, your grace." Jon looked down at Arya, nudging her. "By your leave."

Arya nodded at the king. "Bye." She felt a push on her shoulder from Jon, and scowling, added "your grace."

Robert raised a hand, but didn't speak anymore. Another beat of awkward standing and the two children were off, following Nymeria back out of the crypts. As they walked, the candlelight began to fade, and the shadows in the corners creeped closer.

They reached the door, and Jon grabbed the handle, getting ready to pull. Before he could, he felt a hand take his.

"Arya?"

In the darkness, he could only make out the shape of her face. "Jon…" her voice whispered up through the shadows. "If I want to learn how to use a sword… Does that mean I have to kill someone too?"

Jon remembered his gift. "No," he said. "You don't have to kill anyone. Not unless Sansa finally crosses the line."

He meant it as a joke, and thankfully Arya laughed, though it was soft.

"If I do kill anyone, it'll only be evil men," Arya said, resolute. "I mean, they deserve it, right?"

Jon didn't respond. He thought the men he'd seen his father kill deserved death. And yet, he couldn't forget the look in their eye every time the sword swung down. It was a fear he'd yet to grow accustomed to.

With a heave, he opened the door, and light seeped through to the dark. A clamor reached them, and the two saw that a crowd had built near the First Keep. Walking towards it, Jon heard the cries of a familiar voice.


	2. Chapter 2

Jon rode alongside his father as they neared the crossroads. The boy knew that this would be the last they saw of each other for quite a while, perhaps years. The rest of the host trudged on ahead, even Ghost, who was currently in the care of Tyrion Lannister. Well, at least the wolf followed after Tyrion's mare without much complaint, which was more than either Jon or the dwarf could've hoped for.

"Jon."

He turned to his father, who looked stony as ever. Jon often wondered what thoughts turned in the man's head, but this time he figured they were similar to his own at the moment: all the problems they'd left behind, and what was to come next. What with Bran's fall and the clamor that arose form it, Jon felt as if they'd gone and abandoned Winterfell, like walking out of a burning house and not bothering to come back with water. Now Robb alone stayed to fight the fire, with only his mother and Theon of all people to help him do it.

"When you get there, they'll expect many things from you," Ned said. "Small things, trivial things. You might think them beneath you, as anyone would."

Jon shook his head. "I'll not complain. It was my decision, after all."

Ned gave him a smile at that, and not for the first time Jon felt his chest warm at his father's pride. That smile soured soon after, turning back to its old, stern-jawed grimace.

"I… didn't particularly want this for you. Benjen didn't either."

"I know."

"You'd have been welcome in Winterfell. Your brother would be thrilled to see you return still."

"And your lady wife?" Jon said, some venom in his voice. Ned flinched at that, and the boy looked away. It had been unfair of him to say, he knew, but despite the guilt he didn't regret saying it. When else would Jon see his father again, talk to him? If not now, when could he say these things?

"Not happily, no," Ned admitted. "But still…Winterfell is your home. It always will be." He reached over the gap between their horses, grabbing the boy's shoulder. "Jon, I know it's not been the easiest for you. But you have Stark blood in you. We're family, as you are with all your siblings. Never forget that."

Jon nodded, and his father let go with a pat. They'd reached the split. On his left, north to the Wall, his own small band of travelers already a ways onto the road. Benjen led two walking prisoners along from his horse, with Tyrion and two Lannister guards just behind. A surprise guest, to be sure, but the dwarf had justified it by pointing out the rarity of such an opportunity. When else would he be this far north again? Might as well visit the largest manmade structure in the kingdoms. On Jon's right, south down the Kingsroad, the royal escort waited for Ned to join it.

"Next I see you, you'll be in black," Ned said.

"I suppose so." Jon breathed out from his nose, looking at the distance, where the wall hid behind rows of endless trees. A chill had grown in the air, and his breath came out in vague hints of smoke. "Father," he said, low. "Did I choose right?"

Ned stared at him, face hard. "I can't say," he said. "Your life is yours to live. All I ever hoped for you was your happiness." He held out his hand, open and waiting. "But you've grown well, son. I trust your judgement."

Jon took the hand. They held each other a while, and Jon felt then the finality of the moment. In his heart, perhaps he'd expected to go back to Winterfell after all, to continue his stint as resident bastard and lord's brother. Perhaps he'd expected things to stay the same even as he knew they could not. Now, in his heart, Jon knew this goodbye to be the last they'd share.

So, if not now, when?

"My mother," Jon said, pulling on his father's hand. "Tell me who she was. Please."

Ned's face tightened, then sagged, all in seconds. The man closed his eyes, silent for some time. He pulled his hand away.

"Next time we see each other, Jon," he said. "Once you're sworn and weathered. I'll tell you then. We'll talk all about your mother. I promise."

Jon looked at him, quiet. He nodded once, a gesture his father returned, and then the man was gone, horse turned around and cantering towards the king's group. Jon watched him go, then turned around himself. As he went to join his own party, the boy felt that same damnable hope that had carried him through all those years resurfacing. _Next time._

Perhaps there'd be a next time.

"Oh come off it, Snow," Tyrion said, sitting next to Jon on the softest patch of grass they'd been able to find. "You can't tell me you're already homesick not a day out of Winterfell's walls!"

It was nighttime. They'd made camp along the road, their horses hitched to the trees nearby, the fire dwindling in a deep orange light that cast their faces half in shadow. On their left the tree line hid what Jon knew to be several thousands of acres of forest, and on their right were wide empty plains, all tinted with a certain grey that spoke of the chill that had already reached them so soon before winter.

"I'm not homesick," Jon said.

"Then what's all this gloom about?"

"What gloom?"

"Your face," Tyrion said, returning Jon's deadpan stare. "Always a horrid sight, of course, but the constipated look doesn't do you any favors."

Despite himself, Jon smirked at that. The quip reminded him of something Robb would say, and thinking of this, the smirk disappeared once more.

They'd ambled on up the Kingsroad, trotting alongside each other. The two prisoners had tired after a few hours, though this was to be expected, and so the trip went slower than it might've. Jon figured this would be enough reason to have them at least share a horse, but according to Benjen even this would be excuse enough for an attempted escape with so little men watching over them. The boredom of hours on the road didn't take long to manifest, and added with the rising cold, the trip hadn't exactly been pleasant.

Tyrion took to whistling until Benjen insisted on his silence, the sound having annoyed the rest. After that, he satisfied himself with taking in the sights, what little of them there were. The North, as it turned out, offered little for its tourists; and except for the occasional wild animal scared off by Ghost, there wasn't much to keep one's attention. Still, Tyrion seemed to make the most of it, and was now eating his salted jerky in comfortable silence. The several wineskins he'd brought for the trip didn't seem to hurt his cheer either.

"Where's the wolf?" Tyrion said between bites. "He's some fun, at the very least."

Jon looked into the darkened forest. He could barely make anything out save the occasional rustle. "Don't know. Out finding himself a meal, I'd imagine."

"Little furball like him out there all on his own?"

"Around as big as you," Jon said, and Tyrion rolled his eyes. "He can take care of himself."

Tyrion looked around him at the others, and Jon followed his gaze. Benjen had already gone to sleep along with one of Tyrion's guard—a rather lewd man named Jyck. Morrec, Tyrion's other guard—though he acted more as a manservant, from Jon's observations—leaned miserably against a large rock nearby, having drawn the first shift. The prisoners didn't fare much better; their hands bound to each other, hitched to a tree much the same way the horses were. They valiantly attempted to sleep, and seeing them fidget and roll on the hard ground, their clothes torn and caked with dirt, Jon felt a hint of pity.

Tyrion hummed at the sight. "Poor devils," he said. With a final bite, he finished off his meal, then licked his fingers clean. "But oh, I suppose it's better than the alternative."

"What did they do, anyway?" Jon asked, poking the campfire cinders with a nearby twig. "Kill someone?"

"If your uncle's right, they got caught stealing horses. Part of the reason they weren't given one for this wonderful journey; they'd ride too well to keep a handle on."

"Horses?" Jon looked at the two men, noting their shivering bodies. "I didn't think stealing horses to be so bad as to be offered the black. They wouldn't have gotten the headman's axe, would they?"

"Oh, probably not." Tyrion shrugged. "I'd say a hand off, plus a few whippings."

"So severe?"

Tyrion glanced at him, his mangled lip quirking up. "You don't seem to put much stock in horses, Snow. Granted, they don't seem all that special to us, but imagine someone who _wasn't_ raised in a castle? A farm without a working plow, a merchant without any way to carry his goods… For your average Westerosi, I'd say the theft of a horse could be enough to send whole families into poverty. Well," he leaned back on his hands, yawning into his hand, "into _more_ poverty, that is. If such crimes aren't punished so heavily, you'd likely see a rash of starvation deeper than any famine could bring."

Jon's yes drifted towards their own horses. The beasts had been tired by the end of the day, but nowhere near as much as he had been, and all he'd done was ride one of them. He tried to imagine his life without the black palfrey he'd been given some years before. Steelfoot didn't draw as many eyes as Ghost, but upon further consideration, Jon figured the trip would've been just as hard on him as it had been for the prisoners without the mount.

"I guess they deserve what they get, then."

"Do they? I wonder…"

Jon gave Tyrion a strange look. "You're the one who said stealing horses could ruin whole families."

"And it could. Actually, chances are it will. But it's not like these sorry saps didn't know the consequences of getting caught." Tyrion stood up, stretching his back with his hands high in the air, or as high as he could get them. "Clearly, their being here means that, whatever their circumstances, things must've been hard enough to risk the full brunt of the law."

"They're not the only ones with a bad lot," Jon muttered. "Yet you don't see us all turning into thieves."

"I'd not be so quick to judge, Snow, seeing as you'll be joining them soon enough, along with the rest of your merry band of brothers black." At Jon's glare, Tyrion chuckled, holding his hands out in peace. "Well, it's true, isn't it? You and I were born a dwarf and a bastard, and that's too bad in its own way, but by that same token you were born into the house of Stark and I into the house of Lannister. We've got it far better than those sods, born to whores or farm girls or tavern wenches if they're lucky, and that was as much a choice on their part as our fathers were a choice on ours. Yet here we are, you and I, free and wealthy and cloaked, while there _they_ are, bound and poor and freezing. If things were different, it might be us tied to that tree." The dwarf walked away, towards the bedroll he'd prepared beside the rest of the sleeping men. "As for me, you can bet your sweet arse I'm glad not to be that bad off. A dwarf's life is hard enough."

Jon didn't know how to respond, and either way the Lannister had lied down for the night. He looked at the fire, his eyelids growing heavy. With one last look to Morrec, who himself seemed more than ready for sleep, Jon lied back, hands behind his head, looking up at the stars. He yawned, and with a final hum, closed his eyes.

_A rabbit hid in the underbrush. He knew it was there, had followed after it for some time. He knew the rabbit knew he was there too. It's why the rabbit was hiding. But hidden or not, he knew it was there, and even now he could smell its fear._

_He prepared to pounce._

_Something rattled behind him, and before he could refocus, the rabbit had run away. He considered chasing after it, but the rattling turned to footsteps. Heavy footsteps._

_He hid, low against the tall grass. A man came out from the trees, gasping for breath. It was a familiar smell. The man turned about, eventually looked in his direction. Their eyes met, and Jon was suddenly looking at one of the prisoners, up and about in the middle of the night, hands unbound, escaping, escaping—_

"—escaping! _Jon!_ "

He bolted up. Jon patted himself down, realizing slowly that he was not, in fact, covered in fur. He could smell nothing but the ash from the campfire, burnt down as it was to the final fading cinders.

"What's going on?" he mumbled, bleary eyed. Looking around, he saw the others wide awake, lit by the moon. Tyrion stood next to Morrec, who looked particularly abashed, head low and hands clasped. The horses were unhitched, with Jyck already mounted.

His uncle Benjen knelt down before him, roughly grabbing his shoulders.

"Jon, listen to me," he said, face grave. "The two men, the criminals, they've managed to flee. Don't ask me how," at this, he sent a rather venomous glance at Morrec, "but they've gotten lost somewhere in these woods, I'd bet. Lord Tyrion has generously gifted me assistance in the form of Jyck, but I have a feeling they split up. I need you to help me comb these woods for them."

The summary gave Jon enough time to gain some semblance of wakefulness, and he found himself nodding along before his uncle had even finished. "Yes, of course," he said. "How… How are we to do that?"

Benjen helped Jon up to his feet. "I'm guessing you've gone hunting with your father." Seeing Jon's nod, the man led them to the horses. "Same thing here. Search the trees, look for signs of breakage, for tracks. It's night, but we're lucky to have a true moon out." He pointed to the road. "If they're smart, chances are they split at the road. I want you to take it back to Winterfell while Jyck rides it north. If they're smarter, they split and fled deeper into the forest. Leave that to me. I'm not First Ranger for nothing."

Jon noted that not one of their horses were missing. "They've gone on foot?"

"Likely the only way. Hard enough to run off without waking anyone as it is, and I'd bet it would be much harder on a horse."

There was a certain level of irony in that, Jon thought. Horse thieves forced to escape on foot. He looked over at Morrec, and his voice lowered. "What happened with him?"

"The fool fell asleep before he could wake me up for my shift," Benjen said, shaking his head. "It must have been hours ago now. Who knows how long a lead they have on us."

Almost like in a dream, Jon mounted Steelfoot while Benjen got on his own horse. They looked at each other, and his uncle nodded. "We'll meet back here," Benjen said. "Break the search at dawn, whether you've found them or not. We can only do so much ourselves, but I'd bet they haven't gone too far."

"Yes."

"Remember, check for anything out of the ordinary. Broken branches, a spooked animal—"

"I know, uncle."

Benjen stopped himself, taking his horse's reins. He looked to Jyck, who nodded silently, then back at Jon. Despite the circumstances, he smiled. "Call this your first scouting as a brother of the Night's Watch, then. I trust you, Jon."

Jon smiled at that, and the three of the rode out, Jyck and him into the road, Benjen into the forest.

As he rode, Jon kept his eyes on the trees, watching for any sign of disturbance. He didn't think it likely that the man had escaped by running straight down the road even if he had followed it. Close enough to see it for direction, far enough away to avoid the inevitable search, Some ways into the woods, then, and with that thought Jon dipped Steelfoot into the forest.

Time slipped, minutes passing into what felt like but couldn't have been hours. Jon wondered where Ghost had gone. The wolf could take care of himself, and had gone whole days without coming back, but Jon had a feeling he was following Ghost's trail just as much as the prisoner's. Something about these woods felt familiar. A nudging in his head.

Without even meaning to, Jon found himself honing on this nudging, trusting it, almost as if he could smell it in the air and the smell grew stronger the further he went.

A howl. Jon's heart thundered. "Hya!" he called, setting Steelfoot at a gallop.

Another howl, and before he knew it Jon had reached his friend, spotting Ghost's white fur among the shadows of the trees. To his surprise, he also found the man he'd been looking for, who was slowly backing away from the growling direwolf.

"Halt!" he said reining Steelfoot back even as the shock threatened to overwhelm him. Had Ghost led him to the man?

"Tell that fucking thing to leave me be!" the man said, a stick in his hand. He waved it forward like a sword, pointing it at Ghost, who seemed ready to leap on him at any moment.

Jon dismounted his horse, pulling out the sword he'd tied to his saddle the morning before, sheath and all. He walked briskly towards the man, apprehensive as he neared Ghost, eying the stick the man had begun wildly swinging in his direction. It reminded Jon of himself when he was only just learning the blade, a toddler pretending to be a knight.

"It's over, man," Jon said. Somehow, watching the ragged prisoner perform so ungracefully managed to calm him some. He looked down at Ghost, who still stared unflinchingly at the man but had thankfully stopped growling. "Put that down. There's no reason to fight."

"I have a bloody reason, alright!" The man stepped back, and Jon stepped forward, a hand on his sword. "I… I can't get sent to that blasted wall and freeze to death!"

"The choice was yours. Face it with some dignity."

"Dignity ain't worth my life!"

The man ran forward, arm swinging and stick with it. Jon's training came as if summoned, casting a spell over his body so that he dipped into the swing, hand on the pommel of his sword. In a flash, he cut the stick in half as it came down. The man, caught mid run, stumbled forward, and Jon pushed him with the other hand hard enough to knock him on the ground. Before the man could even sit up, Jon's sword was pointed at his throat.

"You're finished," Jon said.

He saw the man's face in the moonlight. Shallow, sharp, matted in a briskly, patchy beard. A young looking face, and Jon thought it couldn't have been too much older than his own. And there was fear. It reached up the cheekbones, stretching the lips down, drawing the brow. It lit the eyes in a desperate green.

Jon's hand trembled, but he fought to keep his face straight. A strange energy coursed through him, pumping his blood. It was the first time he'd ever truly pointed his blade at another man. With but a twitch, he could end a life then and there. That knowledge chilled him as much as it emboldened him.

"Come back quietly before… B-Before I have to do something drastic," he said.

He expected a bigger fight. He expected a peaceful if strained surrender. What he didn't expect was for the man to go limp, head on the ground, lying as if to sleep. His sword wavered, then straightened once more, eyes watchful.

"Please, m'lord..."

Jon blinked. The words finally reached him, and he leaned forward, thinking he hadn't heard properly. "… What?"

"Please let me go," the man said. Jon belatedly realized that he was crying, tears streaming down the sides of his face and into the dirt. "I just… I only wanted to feed my family. Please, I just had a child. What else could I do? We were all hungry, I thought a horse might sell for some coin to hold us over for the next few months at least. Just until the little one grew a bit. Just until she needed less food… M'lord, please—"

"I'm not a lord!" Jon snapped, out of reflex.

"Whatever you are! Please, I only want to be with my family! I only wanted to protect them!"

Jon felt himself grow angry. He inched his sword closer, almost touching the man's throat.

"Don't… Don't beg me for mercy. You broke the law. You brought this upon yourself."

"Then kill me!" The man opened his eyes wide, glaring up at Jon, face wet and nearly rabid. "I won't live without them! I'll off myself before I spend the rest of my fucking days trapped alone on that dreadful place!" He grabbed the blade of Jon's sword, holding it tightly.

To Jon's bewilderment, he saw blood start dripping out onto the man's chest, blotching his shirt. He felt his sword get pulled down. "Hey—"

"I know now… I should've just chosen death over this! I'm… I'm a coward…" The man sobbed, his breath hitching. "So end it! Kill me now and take care of it!"

Jon looked down at him, silent. His breath came out in low gasps, and he found himself hoping that this man, this thief on the ground begging him for death, couldn't see his face.

Jon gulped. His hand felt sticky against the handle of his sword. Sweaty. In a sort of trance, he brought his other hand up to wipe his brow, and saw that the hand was shaking. He stared at it, willing it to stop, but it wouldn't. It wouldn't follow his command. He willed his breath to still, and it wouldn't do that either. Jon found himself outside his own body, unable to control anything.

The man closed his eyes, teeth grit. "Do it!" He pulled the sword down until the tip stabbed lightly into his chest. He held back a gasp as blood seeped up out of the small wound.

With a start, Jon pulled his sword back, so fast it sliced into the man's hands, cutting his palms. The man shouted, holding his hands close against his body, while Jon only looked down at his sword, eyes wide. He saw the blood dripping down its length. The first blood he'd ever spilt.

"… Go."

The man stopped rolling on the ground, face scrunched in pain. His eyes rose to meet Jon's, but the boy's own eyes were on the sword. "M'lord?"

"Go! Before I change my mind!"

A moment of hesitation, then the man got on his feet, shocked into action. He began backing away, eyeing Jon and Ghost, who had watched the proceedings in the usual icy silence. When the two didn't move to stop him, the man turned around and fled, disappearing into the woods.

Jon watched him go, breath shaky, and immediately regretted it. Had the man lied to him? Hat it been an act? Did it matter either way? He ran a hand through his hair, pacing in circles.

Benjen couldn't know. Right? Jon had technically just broken the law himself. Or, if he was to go to the Night's Watch anyway, what did it matter whether Benjen knew or not? Free or a criminal, he'd end up in the same place. But it did matter, because his uncle had trusted him.

Why did he let the man go? Was he so weak-willed as to be swayed by the briefest hint of pity? Apparently so.

Jon looked at Ghost, who watched him in return. The two stared at each other.

"What do _you_ think of all this?" he asked.

Ghost told him nothing. His eyes held no accusation or comfort. Merely a red reflection glowing in the dark.

Shaking his head, Jon looked at his sword, grimacing at the drying blood. He almost whipped it on his leg, then clicked his tongue, realizing that he'd have to tell the others he hadn't found the man at all, and therefore could not come back to them with blood on his clothes. Instead, he knelt and wiped the blade on the grass, coating it in the crimson stuff, feeling like a brigand all the while. When he was done, he held the blade up to the moon, clean and shining in the pale blue light.

When Jon came back an hour later, the sun was beginning to rise. He saw that Benjen had already returned, one of the prisoners on hand, and his stomach dropped.

"Snow!" Tyrion hailed, spotting him before anyone else. He raised his wineskin, which swung empty under his hand, flapping like a heavy flag. "Tired of frolicking about in the northern wilderness?"

Morrec hailed him as well, a dopey smile on his face. It seemed as if Tyrion had shared. Jon could only wave in return, and for the first time in his life he felt the urge to drink.

"No luck?" Benjen asked as he neared.

Jon shook his head, dismounting before the others.

"You found your wolf, at least," Tyrion said.

Ghost had already made himself at home by the time Jon neared, laying down by the now dead campfire. Jon wondered idly if the wolf had gotten any sleep at all that night. Feeling his own heavy eyes, he sat down next to the canine, placing a hand on the small white head.

"I'd guess he went further into the forest," Jon said. He'd rehearsed that one line in his head the whole way there. He didn't look at anyone, instead staring at Ghost, the wolf a placeholder for his eyes.

Benjen grunted, hands on his hips. He looked around at their camp. "Well, we got one. According to this fella," he pushed the prisoner, making the man stumble and almost fall, "the other one's the one who managed to get them untied. At least we won't have to worry about something like this anymore, am I right, friend?"

His voice sharpened at the end, and the prisoner nodded fearfully. Jon wondered what his uncle had done to inspire such fear. Had he held this one at sword point as well? Had he been given some tragic story?

"Let's break camp," Benjen said, walking towards him. "We'll have everything ready for when Jyck comes back and move out the second he does. Maybe he got luckier than you did." Reaching him, Benjen put a hand on Jon's hair, ruffling it the same way Ned so often had, the same way he so often did with Arya and Bran. It made his stomach flip sickly, and Jon had to hold down a retch.

"… I'm sorry, uncle. Sorry I couldn't bring him back."

He didn't turn around, but he could feel Benjen's smile. "No problem, pup. These things happen sometimes. It's no one's fault."

His uncle moved away, walking towards the bedrolls. Jon sat there for a moment, calming himself. Then, he got on his knees and grabbed the small pot they'd cooked soup in the night before. He carried it over to the horses, packed it away. Then he returned to the campfire and, with his foot, brushed the pile of ash down into the ground, erasing it, leaving only the barest of traces that it had ever been there at all.


	3. Chapter 3

From afar it had looked like a line drawn between land and sky. From up close, Jon thought it a mountain of ice grown from east to west, like a god had come down and cut out a string of earth. The afternoon sun, obstructed by a sheet of clouds, cast it in plain light which only served to blur it against the horizon, as if the wall went all the way up into a dome that ensnared all the world.

"If I piss off it," Tyrion said, breathless as any of them, "I might just kill someone by accident."

Benjen smiled at that, and at all their awed faces. "Welcome to my neck of the kingdoms, Lannister. How do you like it?"

"I like it very well. Every man's a dwarf in the face of _that_."

They trotted towards Castle Black, a dark and crumbling mass of stone cradled to the Wall as if glued to it. Even from afar, Jon could see the ladders and staircases that clung to its towers and battlements, many of which crept up the Wall itself. He could see something like a tube, the sole construct that ran from the ground all the way to the top, almost lost in its height.

When they reached the gate, they were met with a small band of brothers. At their head stood a stern, broad-shouldered man. His beard, white and wispy, ran down to his chest, and to Jon's bemusement, a crow sat perched atop his shoulder, black as the man's robes.

"Benjen!"' he said, breaking into a smile. He walked forward as Jon's uncle dismounted, the two men meeting with an enthusiastic wrap of forearms.

"Lord Commander," Benjen said. "Good to see you."

"And you, Stark," the Lord Commander said. His eyes drifted towards the rest. "And these lucky few?"

Benjen turned to them. "Ah, right. Some guests, and a couple new recruits."

They'd all dismounted now. Tyrion waddled right up to the old man, hand held out.

"Tyrion Lannister, my lord," the dwarf said. "I hope your hospitality is as impressive as the scenery."

At this, the Lord Commander's smile broadened. "That's a hard standard to meet. Don't hold your breath." The two clasped hands. "Jeor Mormont, at your service. I'm sure we can find you and yours some adequate lodgings. Better than what our men are used to, at least."

"And I'm sure they all live in luxury already."

The two laughed, already friends, or so it seemed to Jon. As for himself, he held back, as did the prisoner of theirs, who was currently in his custody. Benjen had given the man over to his nephew some days before, and Jon had been as proud as he'd been ashamed to be given such a show of trust.

Speaking of which, Benjen removed himself from the rest of his black brothers to stand before Jon.

"Lord Commander, this is my nephew, Jon. He came here to follow in my footsteps."

Jeor looked down at the boy, eyes searching. "Well then, Jon. If you're to stay at the Wall, you'll need darker furs. And heavier." Something caught his eye, and he turned to look around Jon. "And what's this?"

They all turned to Ghost, who'd sat quietly behind the rest, watching the welcome with red, hawkish eyes. The wolf, now the center of attention, proceeded to ignore them all and stare up at the Wall.

"Oh, that's Ghost. He's…" Jon stammered, only then realizing the absurdity of his next words. "Well, he's my direwolf."

"A direwolf?" Jeor took a step forward, and when Ghost didn't so much as twitch in response, he hummed. "Small for a direwolf. Still growing?"

Jon nodded.

"He won't be giving me any trouble, will he? I'd hate to see a mangled arm in the kennels."

"Ghost is well-trained," Benjen said. "He won't eat anyone. Right, Jon?"

"Yes. I mean, he won't eat anyone. "

"Right..." Jeor looked at Ghost a moment longer, then shook his head. "I've seen my share of direwolves north of the Wall, but I've not seen a man _own_ one." Jeor held out his hand to Jon. "Good meeting you, Jon. Keep surprising me and I might just swear you in sooner!"

They clasped hands, Jon stammering out a greeting. Without much pause, Jeor turned to the prisoner.

"And you. Jon, let the man free." Seeing the boy's surprise, he put a hand on the prisoner's shoulder. "We're all bound to the vows here in the Night's Watch. The man's a brother now. What's your name?"

The prisoner blinked, shocked at having been addressed at all. He'd spoken very little during the trip, Jon knew, and he'd struggled the most out of all of them without a horse. Even now, Jon could tell his knees shook as much as his skin, still clad in thin linen.

"It's… It's Ronald, m'lord."

"Ronald, then. These men here will take you to your lodgings. Ready yourselves for sore backs and frosted hands."

Benjen took Jon's shoulder then. "My lord, let me take Jon up," he said. "We'll see what my nephew thinks of the view. I'll bring him down just after."

Jeor nodded, his chest rattling in a chuckle. "Sure, Stark, help yourself to it. Boy," at this, he looked down at Jon, eyes piercing. "I'll see you later, I'm sure. Work hard."

Jon nodded, watching as Jeor led Tyrion and the others toward the castle hall. Benjen waved him forward, and Jon looked back at Ghost, who sat still among the horses even as they were taken by stewards. One of these men stood near the wolf, slowly nudging closer, looking from Ghost to Jon and Benjen with wary eyes.

"Leave him be," Jon said, unsure of whether to laugh or sigh in exasperation. "He'll not hurt anyone. Not unless you try to cage him."

At this, the steward nodded stiffly and left with the others, walking the horses to the stables. A moment later, Jon waving goodbye at Ghost, he and Benjen followed.

They walked across the yard, Benjen greeting a brother here and there. Some carried piles of clothes and bags of foodstuff, huffing from one end of the yard to the other, or trained and fed the barking hounds. A forge sat along with an armory, where a pack of brothers stood jabbering and playing with steel. A few, Jon realized, actually hung along the Wall itself, wrapped in rope and tied to platforms nailed to the icy side doing gods knew what.

All these men, Jon thought, carried the same hardened demeanor, as if cloaked in ice, their steps heavy and their faces the least bit gaunt. Yet Benjen seemed to know most of them, if not all. Everyone waved back at him, their greetings wrapped in jeers.

"Stark! Had enough southron snatch?"

"I almost forgot your ugly mug!"

"You better have brought back good wine! I'm tired of the piss we've got here."

Comradery sent in ships of dirty humor. Jon felt like he'd walked into the Winterfell household lodgings. Or a whorehouse.

A group of brothers stood on one side of the yard, practicing with blunted steel. Jon saw them wave the swords around, some more skilled than others but all hardly capable, and the sight made him remember the prisoner in the forest. His mood dropped, and it dropped further when the man at the head of this group took note of he and Benjen.

"Stark," the man said, turning to them with a grizzled scowl which deepened further the closer they got. "I hoped you'd be an oathbreaker by now."

Different than the others, Jon heard no humor in his gravely voice. The man stood tall and slimmer than most, long black hair greying. His blacker eyes, passing from Benjen down to Jon, cooled everything in sight.

"As you can see, I've decided to grace you all with my presence once more," Benjen said, words straining ever so slightly. "Thorne, this is my nephew, Jon. He'll be in your care from now on."

"Another wolf thrown to the crows." Unlike the Lord Commander, this man said no greetings. Extended no hands. He only looked Jon up and down, a sneer on his face. "And a half-wolf at that. I suppose the Wall's as good a place as any for bastards."

Jon felt a fire brush at his chest, a smoldering anger. Something of this must've made it to his eyes, because the man barked a laugh.

"Hurt your feelings, boy? Get used to it. The Wall's no place for women or babes." The disgust in his face shifted into boredom. He looked down at Jon as one might the dirt under his boots. "Neither is my training yard. Can you hold a blade, or shall I be teaching you even that?"

"I trained under Ser Rodrik Cassel!" Jon snapped. "A true knight!"

"A true knight?" The man's lips curled into a slick smirk, thin and crooked. "Why, you're looking at one right now, bastard. We'll see how well your southron games do here."

With that, he turned back to the trainees, cloak sweeping up in the air and smacking Jon in the face. Blinking, Jon could feel the fire in his chest cook and bolster, and he readied himself to stomp over and shout the man into a hole. Benjen stopped him, a hand on his arm.

"Come, Jon," he said, pulling. "We're off."

With one last look at the slime of a man, Jon followed his uncle. The man's shouting voice, cruel and harsh, followed them as they went.

"That's Ser Allister Thorne, the master-at-arms here in Castle Black," Benjen said, sighing. "Quite the pleasant one, isn't he?"

"Quite the devil, more like," Jon said, his frown deep.

"If it makes you feel any better, he's like that with everybody."

They stopped close to the gate, a semicircular chunk carved out of the ice filled in by thick wooden beams. Next to it sat the winch elevator, the great iron chains strung all the way to the top of the wall. And before these two great and fundamental constructs, like a watchful bear, stood an old and bulbous brother who greeted them with jolly laughter.

"Benjen! The First returns!"

"Kale," Benjen said, and his smile bloomed in earnest.

The two men met with warmth, the larger brother taking the other up in a backbreaking hug. The sight was friendly enough to drive Jon's anger away completely, not through some magic but through the whiplash that came with such a quick release of tension.

"I thought we'd lost you to those hot springs of yours!" Kale said, voice booming and eager.

"And miss out on the first snow of Winter? I think not." Benjen turned to Jon, his own smile contagious, and before long the boy found himself grinning a bit as well. "Kale, this is Jon, my nephew. He'll be taking his vows as well."

"Ah, a family tradition, then." Kale took Jon's hand and shook, almost pulling the arm out of its socket. "Kale of the Riverlands. Always a pleasure to meet a new brother!"

"Nice to meet you," Jon said, pulling his hand back carefully.

"Yes, well, I'm guessing you lot want to take the cage up?"

Benjen nodded, and Kale went over to the winch. He pulled the lever along its side, opening the iron cage with a rusty screech. He stepped aside, hands out like a butler. "All yours, First."

"Thank you, Kale. I'll see you back at the hall."

"Ha! I'll save you a drink!"

Jon followed Benjen into the cage, which turned out to be bigger than it looked from the outside. The iron bars closed with another screech, and with one last salute, Kale pulled another lever. Jon felt a rumble under his feet, and before he knew it they were floating up into the air.

"How?" Jon gasped, looking down as the ground and the men and the castle itself grew smaller and smaller.

"Gods if I know, but it's damned convenient," Benjen said, looking at Jon with an amusement built over years of experience. "Fifty years ago we'd have needed some brothers to pull us up. A _hundred_ years ago we'd have had to climb the stairs."

"That's incredible," Jon said, looking up at the chain-wrapped ropes which pulled them. He hadn't even known something like this was possible. The closest thing to it he'd ever seen were the toys Maester Luwin kept on his desk. Tiny pulleys and gears which John had spent his lessons examining while the learned man droned on. It almost made him regret not paying much attention.

He looked down, feeling himself a bird atop the world. The men looked like termites, and the buildings like simple piles of stone strewn about.

"Who was that man, uncle?" Jon said. "Kale of the Riverlands."

Benjen also looked down, through the iron bars, smiling softly. "A brother of the Watch just like any other," he said, shrugging. "A friendly sort. Serves him well as the gatekeeper."

"So he just stands around there all day, sending people up and down the Wall?"

"He waves us off during rangings as well."

Jon thought of himself standing still for hours on end, waving hellos and goodbyes. It seemed like a boring job to him, but the riverlander seemed happy enough.

"Why'd he call you 'First'?" he asked.

"I'm First Ranger, Jon," Benjen said. " _Someone_ better give me credit for it."

The cage came to a sudden stop, and Jon almost fell at the shake which followed.

"We're here," Benjen said, turning around to meet the opening cage. Without any fanfare, he stepped out onto the top of the Wall.

Jon watched him go, finally able to hear the wind now that it wasn't drowned out by the creaking and cranking of the winch. It howled in a slow song, like a wolf in the distance, and Jon felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He stepped out after his uncle, and in seconds was looking over the Wall, a hand coming up on its own to rest upon the cold parapet.

A blanket of white covered the world. Jon knew this wasn't the case—only minutes ago he'd been below, walking on grass and dirt and stone. Winter wouldn't arrive for another few months at least. And yet, looking at the lands beyond the Wall, Jon could see a mass of snow reaching out from the horizon and creeping towards him with icy fingers.

"Amazing, isn't it?"

Jon looked at Benjen, who already looked far more at home atop this slab of ice than he ever had all the times he'd visited Winterfell, a leg propped carelessly on the parapet. There was awe in his eyes, Jon could see that, but it was a honed awe. Even now, the man was looking for his next trail, judging the land as much as he was wondering at it even after so many years.

"The wildlings call it the 'True North,' did you know?" Benjen said, leaning on his knee. "We in the North think ourselves so different from the Southerners. And we are, in our own way. Our traditions draw back from the First Men. Yet we've mingled with the Andals and the Rhoynar for all the hundreds of years that the wildlings have not." He glanced at Jon, a wry grin on his face. "To them, _we're_ the Southerners."

A gust of chill wind buffeted them. To Jon's shame, he felt himself shiver even under his cloak. "I've never met a wildling," he said, trying to stop the trembling in his voice.

Benjen stared at him, smiling still, though his face straightened soon after. He looked out at the land of white again. "If you're to be my brother in black, then you should know I won't be there to baby you at every turn. We're family, but every man must make his own way. Especially here in the Watch." He put a hand on Jon's shoulder, shaking it. "We _are_ still family, though. I've an old cloak in my chambers that should fit you well enough. You'll need thicker stuff than this if you're to remain up here."

He laughed lightly, and Jon felt a stab of guilt at knowing he didn't deserve it. The boy thought about turning the gift down, but then considered that doing so for no reason might come off as ungrateful. Also, to his shame, he felt another shiver.

"… Thank you, uncle. No," Jon glanced sideways at the other man, "First Ranger Stark. I'll be proud to wear it."

"Perhaps it'll give you luck in the coming days," Benjen said. "I know I had a hard time of it at first."

"It won't be so bad as that," Jon said, meaning that it _couldn't_ be that bad. If it was, he'd just have to pretend it wasn't. What else could he do? "I can handle it."

The process took place every week. Someone complained about the smell, took it up with a steward, and the steward took it up with the recruits, after which the recruits drew straws. Jon, due to some stroke of misfortune, drew short, and was therefore pulling his weight, a rope over his shoulder, as he and three other boys carried a sled piled with swishing chamber pots out to the creek near the castle.

"This… is definitely not effective," one of them said, panting between words. "At least a _cart_... Something with wheels…"

He was a fat boy, with reddening cheeks and arms which Jon could see straining and jiggling even under his heavy cloak. Samwell Tarly, or so he had called himself, though looking at him Jon could hardly believe that he was the firsborn son of any noble family. All the ones he'd had the opportunity to meet from either up close or a distance had been closer to Robb's ilk, strong and capable.

"Oh shut it, Piggy," another said. Oafish and wide at the shoulders, taller than the rest. Grenn, Jon remembered. He took the lead, feet pushing against the ground harder than the other three.

The last, a pint-sized boy with big, wiggling ears, was Pypar, or Pyp, as he had introduced himself. Out of all of them, he seemed to be enjoying himself the most, smiling and japing all through their trek, heels bouncing off the grass. "Lord's son not used to sweat and tears, is that it? Better get used to it, heh heh!"

Jon, of course, kept his silence. There were twenty recruits currently stationed at Castle Black, and out of them only the ones considered ready would be taken the following week to the heart tree beyond the Wall to say their vows. Most were boys like him, perhaps only a bit older, though a few were men grown and bearded. The prisoner his uncle Benjen had brought back was one, currently back at the castle, probably lunching with the rest.

"At least this one's helping well enough," Grenn said, head nodding at Jon. Their eyes met. "Did your share of chores around Winterfell, Snow?"

Jon stayed silent, staring the other boy down until he looked away with a huff.

"Well, I for one don't plan on ever doing this again," Grenn said, gritting his teeth. "Some other bloke can deal with it once I'm vowed and sworn."

"You sure are confident, Grenn," Pyp said.

"Not much competition," the large boy said, glancing towards Sam, who squirmed at the attention. "Yeah, I figured it'd be a shithole, but at this point I'm just glad to be on the useful end of things."

Pyp laughed, his voice taking on an accent Jon recognized as southron, all pomp and bluster. "They'll have you knighted in a jiffy, you be sure of it! A horse and armor for our best and brightest in the ass end of the world!"

None of them laughed, though Grenn did smirk at Pyp's antics.

"You're no farmboy, that's for sure," Grenn said. "What mistake brought you all the way out here?"

Pyp shrugged, smiling still. Jon though the look glued to the boy's face, like a gremlin in constant mischief. "Oh, I was betrayed, you see. My master turned me in."

"And what for?"

"I stole his coin purse."

At this, Grenn did laugh. "There's no blaming that on him!"

Sam spoke up, his voice soft and hesitant. "What kind of master did you have?"

Pyp turned to look at him, eyebrows wiggling along with his ears. "Can't you tell? I was in a mummer's troupe. Traveled all over, saw all the sights. Even seen a monkey or two."

"Monkey?" Grenn said, frowning.

"It's a kind of animal," Sam said. "A simian. By which I mean, they have feet and hands like us, though they're far smaller. Not native to the kingdoms, but I've read they can be found in the Summer Isles and a few places along the coast of—"

"Oh shut it already," Grenn grumbled. "I didn't ask for a lullaby."

Sam shrunk into himself, and Pyp only laughed at the sight. "And you, Ser Pig? What brought one of your fine stature to such an honorable institution?"

Not looking at any of them, Sam mumbled into his chest. "… My father cast me out. Not quite the son he was looking for, I suppose."

Grenn snorted. "No kidding," he said.

"Hey, we're all friends here," Pyp said, sighing in mock frustration. "Let's be cheery now."

"I can only get so cheery dragging around pounds of shit."

"Well, Grenny, what's your story then? Can't be any worse than the lordling here." He covered his mouth, looking back at Sam in exaggerated concern. "Sorry, _ex_ -lordling. I understand if the wound's still fresh..."

"I beat the crap out of some kid," Grenn said, shrugging. "Took my girl to bed. I'd bet they're having a good time of it about now." He smirked. "Well, they _would_ be if he still had it in him to act a man."

"Eye for an eye with some creative interpretation," Pyp said, chuckling. He then blinked, eyes widening as much as his grin. "Oh, oh! So you lost a good deal coming here then, Grenny my boy!"

Grenn frowned down at the smaller recruit. "What're you talking about?"

Pyp puffed up his chest, eyes closed and chin raised. "You see, my friend, I… am yet a maiden." Grenn broke into laughter, followed by a bark from Sam, and even Jon found it hard to reign his in. "You may all laugh, but it's true. In all my years of swashbuckling through these vast lands, I've yet to take a girl to the sheets. This may be a tragedy, gentlemen, but hear me, it's you, Grenn, who really suffers now! It's only by the cruelty of your gods that you now find yourself at the Night's Watch, forever to swear off the ecstasy of a lady's embrace!" He thumped his chest, hand over his heart. "I, at least, know not what I am losing. The veil of ignorance will save me from the horrors of an untouchable knowledge!"

"You're a funny one, Pypar," Sam said, his cheeks still red, still huffing in the effort of pulling, but the japes on his person momentarily forgotten.

"On that we can agree, Piggy," Grenn said.

"Thank you, thank you. Save your applause." Pyp turned to Jon then, who he only just realized had abstained from the proceedings. "And you, Lord Snow, what crime sent you here to commune with us scoundrels?"

"No crime," Jon said, insistent. When the other three turned to him, he paused, words catching in his throat. "That is… Well, it's my business."

Grenn scowled, and for a second Jon was reminded of Arya whenever she was forced to her rooms along with the other ladies in waiting. "Oh, come off it, Snow. We all shared ours."

"Like a story circle at a campfire," Pyp sang.

"It's only fair, right, Piggy?"

Sam stammered. "Well, it's… I mean, if you want to…"

Jon hesitated, then sighed, turning away from them all. "I came to find some honor. As a bastard…" He couldn't find the words, and so left it at that.

Their expressions all morphed into some measure of shock. Pyp appraised him like a shopper might one's wares, watching for defects. Even Sam blinked owlishly at him. Jon saw it all from the corner of his eye, his face flushing.

"You… You mean you actually _chose_ to come here?" Grenn asked, taken back. "Here, the ass end of the world? With scumbags and whoresons and all? From _Winterfell_?"

At this, Jon sent the other boy a scathing glare. "My uncle chose it too, so you know. There are plenty of men at the Wall who come seeking to make a name for themselves. What's so wrong with that?"

Jon's glare, it seemed, made Grenn respond in turn. "What's wrong? What's _wrong_?" He stopped pulling, and the sled sloshed to a stop amidst the trees and rustling bushes. The boy threw his thick arms toward the pile of chamber pots. "Look at it with your eyes, man! We're stuck here dragging shit from one piece of nowhere to another, and you're telling me you're here on _purpose_? Think any of _us_ want to be here?"

The two stared each other down once more, and this time neither backed off. Eventually, Pyp forced himself in between the two. "That's enough, ladies. You're both a sight, let me tell you."

The sound of running water met their ears. To all their surprise, they'd reached the creek without having noticed. Jon, Grenn and Sam turned to their small companion, whose ears wiggled playfully.

Pyp smiled back at them. "Now, can we please dump the stuff before my nose falls off?"

The others went ahead onto the hall for dinner. Jon stayed outside on the yard, breathing out sighs of cold smoke. The days were slowly getting shorter, he thought, seeing that it was now night.

He leaned against a fencepost, staring up. He saw the four stars of the Crone's Lantern, its golden haze marked against the white milky streak that wrapped around the dark like a river across the sky. He saw the Sword of the Morning, its pointed tip brighter than anything surrounding it, and he remembered with sudden clarity the time he and Robb had played at war, when Robb had taken on the mantle of their father and defeated him as Arthur Dayne, the broken tower serving as the Tower of Joy.

Sansa had played with them still, young enough to barely walk. Arya had yet to be born, much less Bran or Rickon. Jon remembered how, playing dead on the ground, Robb carrying her in his arms for the rescue, he and her eyes had met, and she'd smiled at him, breaking their game, a secret look between them. Never did Jon feel as at home as he did then, and for a moment he forgot that they weren't true siblings.

The stars above Castle Black looked just as they did in Winterfell, and for the first time Jon understood that they'd likely look the same no matter where he went. They would follow him, the same constellations he'd memorized at Maester Luwin's side, and it pained him to know there was no corner of the world hidden form their sight, though he couldn't grasp why.

Something nudged his foot. Jon looked down, seeing Ghost, who looked up at him, tail wagging. Walking towards them was Tyrion, who seemed to have removed himself from the hall, hand patting a full belly.

"What's wrong, Snow?" the dwarf said, stopping at his side. "The indoors too merry for your tastes?"

"I wouldn't call anywhere around here _merry_."

"Oh, depends how you look at things." Tyrion hopped up onto the fence, sitting on it with a dexterity belying his size. "Just look at your wolf here. Rather unfriendly at first, but I'd say he's warming up to me."

Jon glanced at Ghost as the wolf panted happily up at the both of them, tongue lolling out. He sent Tyrion a dry look.

"How much did you feed him in there?"

Tyrion looked away, feet kicking up. "He's a growing boy. Very big appetite." His eyes widened a bit, and Jon, taking note of it, followed its gaze. "Seems we've got more visitors."

A wagon came into the yard, manned by a black brother and filled with four or five other men. The two horses pulling it drew closer, until the wagon stopped just before them, the driver hailing with a hand in the air and the other on the reins.

"Let me guess," Tyrion said, a hand up in greeting, "another batch of greenhorns?"

"Aye, from all the North" the brother said, voice gruff. His black and full beard took up most of his face, though what little of it Jon could see was riddled in moles and discoloration. His back seemed hunched, but Jon eventually saw the problem came from a shoulder which seemed twisted forward, likely from some accident. "Just picked up another on the way from Winterfell too. Fucker got caught at just the wrong time!"

"Quite unfortunate," Tyrion said, deadpan.

The brother huffed a stream of cold, wispy air in a shaky breath. "Where's the Lord Commander anyway? I gotta tell him I'm back. Hopefully he'll not send me off again too soon…"

Tyrion pointed behind him toward the hall. "Eating with the rest of the men. I suppose you'd better get these fellows sorted before getting a word in with him."

"Damn." The brother clicked his tongue, then whipped the reins. "I'm no steward… Well, thanks anyway, little man. We'll see if I can pass these lowlifes off yet."

The wagon rattled forward, the men atop it sat silently with their heads bowed. Jon watched them go to the stables, his arms crossed. Then, just as they were getting too far to make out, one of the men raised his head, looking toward the hall, a hungry longing in his face. His eyes looked around before eventually settling on Jon, and with a start they both recognized one another.

The prisoner. Jon remembered that face, those hands covered in blood. The chill of the air seeped through his furs and his skin and into his bones.

"Looks like you're not the newest anymore, Snow," Tyrion said.

Jon didn't respond. He merely looked on as the wagon stopped, as the horses were freed from it, as the men were called down from its wooden step.


	4. Chapter 4

_Blood filled his mouth._

_It tasted like biting on liquid steel. He drank it up along with the meat, devouring it along with tiny chunks of bone. His throat rumbled of its own accord, a low tenor which shook his whole body and fed straight into his ears, muting everything behind a dull throb._

_When he finished, the carcass was unrecognizable. Some animal, no doubt, obviously one smaller than him. If it had been bigger it wouldn't have gotten eaten. And soon enough, he knew, soon enough he'd be bigger than anything. The knowledge sat at the back of his mind, a truth like the sky above his head and the coming cold. As the sun rose and set, he grew bigger, and once he was big enough…_

_A howl in the distance. He didn't respond. He never did. Its kind was not his kind. He listened to it a moment, heard it fade to the wind. A beat of silence. Another howl. A beat. Another._

_Silently, he slipped into the shadows, searching for his next meal._

Jon leaned back just as the dull blade swiped at his neck, missing it by inches. All as planned, of course—the wind-up had been that of a carpenter with a sledgehammer rather than that of a swordsman, so it was easy to read. Another swing. Jon stepped around it, shoulders slack, his own sword held lightly at his side.

Grenn tried again, an overhead, and this time Jon stepped into his guard. Grenn's wrist slapped against Jon's shoulder, hard enough that the sword slipped out of his grip and clattered to the ground.

Grimacing, Jon stepped back, rubbing his shoulder. It couldn't hold a sword properly, but that swing wasn't something to scoff at. Jon knew that Grenn and some others recruits were stronger than him physically; many had been carpenters or farmers or smithies, toiling every day under hard labor. And yet he'd won again, if only because a hammer or a plow was not the same as a blade.

The small crowd around them groaned as one. It was a routine they'd built over the previous few days, so it was easy for Jon to ignore. He bent down, picking up the dull sword, and held its handle out for Grenn.

"Good fight," he said.

Grenn grabbed the sword, pulling it roughly out of Jon's hand. "Oh _thank you_ , Lord Snow," he said, walking back into the crowd. " _So_ grateful for your kindness."

Wordlessly, Jon made to follow Gendry, but a barking voice stopped him.

"Hold there, Snow." Allister Thorne watched over all the sparing that went on under his watch with the same dethatched fury, but when it came to Jon he seemed to have taken a special interest. "Not a bruise on either of you. Is that what you call a fight?"

Jon shrugged. "If it ends, it ends."

"And without neither of you having learned a thing." Thorne crossed his arms, a vicious glint in his eye. "Makes me think you need a proper challenge. Castle trained boy like you, I'm sure you're getting bored up against all this lowborn fodder, am I right?"

The crowd of recruits grumbled at that, shooting both Thorne and Jon needled looks. Thorne preened in the anger, while Jon could only struggle to keep a straight face.

"Hard to get bored with a sword swinging at you," Jon said.

"Oh, but you make it look easy." Thorne's eyes roamed over the recruits. "You, Pimple. And Halder there."

Said men perked at that, and the two were _men_ , or at least close to it. Halder was older than most of the others, with a thickening beard and squared shoulders atop a large body built from years as a stonemason's apprentice. Pimple, whose real name was really Albett, suffered from his namesake, with a face puffed in red blots. Like Halder, he was also one of the older boys, and though he wasn't quite as muscular, he more than made up for it with size alone, standing a head over even Thorne, arms thick as tree trunks.

"Give Lord Snow a good fight, will you?" Thorne's smirk curled further up with each word. "Let's have everyone sleep with some bruises tonight. Hard work is something to be proud of."

The two recruits didn't need much convincing. They grabbed a pair of swords off the nearby rack, then stomped over to Jon amongst a fading 'ooooh' from their peers. Jon watched them come, wanting to protest. He opened his mouth to, but at seeing Thorne's face, and the faces of everyone else, he decided against it. They all hated him already; no reason to have them all think him a coward as well.

Instead, he took on the stern mask of his father, grim and stalwart, like a pike man standing against a cavalry charge. He raised his training sword, tip pointed between the two men, still in the cold air.

Halder and Albett looked at each other, then split around Jon, surrounding him from either side. Jon chose to face Halder, the stronger of the two men, his feet shuffling as he turned, all the while keeping his ear open for what would surely come from behind.

Albett didn't disappoint. The moment Jon lost sight of the larger man, he heard the tell-tale sound of a heaving step, a great scratching of dirt, and in a second he twisted around, blade up.

He parried the wide swing that had been coming for his neck—and Jon had guessed that it would be the neck, or at least the head—and rushed forward. He twirled around Albett, keeping the man between him and Halder, who had tried to take the opportunity to slash at his open back. He then pushed Albett into a charging Halder, and the two men bumped ungracefully, arms flailing carefully around each other.

Jon breathed out, air drifting slowly out from his nose, before bringing his sword up again. He waited, allowing the men to regroup, Albett straightening with a face reddened all the more by embarrassment. They faced him, even more hesitant than before, shuffling forward in half steps, and Jon saw it as his chance to end things.

"That won't work," he said, tonelessly, like reading from a book. "Splitting off, it's obvious what you'll do."

It wasn't, but his words had the intended effect. The two glanced at each other, anger bubbling up their faces, and charged him all at once, sword hands drawn back as if to throw stones. Seeing this, Jon stepped forward to meet them halfway, right before their swords were set to come down. He then turned around and spread his legs, bending his knees slightly so that his feet came to rest right inside their step. The two men, too slow to react, finished their stride, their ankles locking up with his and, with a heave of inertia, tripping the both.

Halder and Albett fell face-first, hands coming up to stop their fall. Still, they landed in a gasping heap, flat against the ground. Albett even dropped his sword.

There rose another round of groans, though this one dotted with bouts of laughter at the expense of the two on the dirt. Jon looked at Thorne, who had watched the whole thing with amused indifference, arms crossed.

"Looks like you won't be learning much today either, Snow," Thorne said. Louder, he addressed the whole lot. "Alright ladies, that's enough of my time you're wasting. Same hour tomorrow, and don't let me catch you somewhere else."

With that, he walked off, not sparing a glance behind him. The rest began to disperse too, splitting into groups of two or three, heading to the hall for dinner. Halder and Albett threw Jon a final scowl before doing the same, and soon enough he was left alone on the yard.

Sighing, Jon put his sword on the rack and readied himself to carry it back. They weren't to leave it outside after all—had been told not to by Thorne their first day of training. Ideally, he'd have someone to help carry them all back to the armory, but the others had learned to leave him with such trifles as a reward for hours of humiliation.

Well… All but one of them, at least.

"I'll push again?" Sam said, hands already reaching for the wooden rack.

Jon nodded, walking around to the other side.

Slowly, they half-carried, half-dragged the rack of a dozen or so training swords across the yard, not bothering to look to any of the other brothers around for help. When it came to the recruits, the ones under oath seemed to steer clear unless they had no choice. Benjen's words from his first day came back to him then, and Jon wondered if it was some unspoken rule to let the new members deal with their own problems.

A problem he'd accepted, Jon knew, and the thought made him sigh again. He looked at the only person who'd stuck by him, and he felt some gratitude towards Sam, the large boy puffing and sweating through the trek, arms already shaking even though Jon was pulling most of the weight.

Soon enough, they reached the armory. It was, unlike the rest of the castle, lacking in open space. Weapons littered the walls, lined up from top to bottom, some old and nicked, others entirely unused and clean. Hundreds of years of weaponry stacked one atop the other. Jon could almost believe that the dirt under his feet was merely rust built over centuries of aging steel.

There was no door, merely a wooden canopy open to the yard, silent save for the constant ring of hammer on iron that came from the forge just alongside it. Jon could hear that ring now, looking over at the blacksmith as he dragged the rack of swords, sharing a nod of greeting before he stepped further inside.

"Thank you, Sam. Again." Jon let the rack go with another silent huff, dusting his hands off.

For his part, Sam had to put a hand on the wall, bending over to regain his breath. "No need to… t-thank me."

Jon considered offering some help, but not knowing what this might entail, remained in place. "I'd pull it all back myself, Sam," he said instead. "Why not leave with the others?"

"Ah, w-well…" Sam managed a smile, though a weak one, face a deep red from the effort. "It'd b-be… unfair w-wouldn't it? Though I d-don't see why… ha… no one uses wheels around here!"

"It's because you kids need some discipline pounded into your skulls."

Jon and Sam both turned at the new voice, the latter with a startled gasp. It was the blacksmith, Donal Noye, his sole arm brandishing a newly polished axe. The man, towering high over both recruits, strode in with nary a glance at them, heading straight for the armor stand by the corner, one surrounded in mounds of unleathered steel plate.

Surprising both boys, Sam was the first to snap out of the shy quiet the sudden entrance had produced. "What do you mean, Ser?" he said, regaining some energy.

Donal huffed out his nose, dropping the helm right onto the stand and crouching in front of the plates. He began piling some atop one another, sandwiching sheets of steel—unused breastplates, cracked gauntlets, and whatever else had been abandoned to the armory's edges over the years. He spoke without turning around, voice rough and deep like any northman's, yet clearly southron in accent.

"Up here, no gods will save you from harsh winters," he said. "All we have is each other. Murderers and thieves we may have, but brothers of the Watch are expected to fight and die for one another if need be. And nothing brings men closer together than complaining about the ones ordering them around. The more to complain about the better."

Sam and Jon looked at each other, the latter shrugging.

"I suppose that makes sense," Sam said, haltingly.

"Hundreds of years of tradition? I'd hope it does," Donal said. The steel piled, he grabbed the whole heap with one massive hand and picked it up, sliding it under his arm like a book. "Well, boys, keep up the good work."

He walked out, rounding the corner toward the forge. Jon and Sam stood in the armory, watching as he disappeared, only then noticing the fading light outside.

"Dinner should be ready soon," Sam said. He glanced shiftily at Jon. "Might as well head there now, no?"

The Tarly's face looked hopeful enough that Jon almost agreed. A pause later, he held up his hand.

"I'm not hungry at the moment. I might stop by the kitchens later."

Sam's face fell, cheeks hanging low. "Oh, no problem. I'll see myself there, then." He started away with an uneasy smile. "See you, Jon."

"See you, Sam."

The large boy left. Jon waited, considering what to do. He hadn't straight out lied—he really _wasn't_ very hungry. It made him feel a bit bad, as in his days here Sam was the only one he'd formed something of a friendship with, though even that might be too strong a word for it.

The first time he'd eaten in the hall, Jon had sat with the rest of the men, another face in a nameless crowd, watching ahead as Tyrion and his uncle Benjen had sat with Jeor Mormont and the other high officers of the Watch. After a week of eating with the two as equals, as mere travelers on the road, the sight had brought back some uncomfortable memories. The whole hall reminded him too much of Winterfell, as small as it was in comparison, and as much as it made him miss his family it also made him resent them just a little.

Benjen, as he had warned Jon, was far too busy to pay much attention to his nephew. The two only ever saw each other briefly, so brief as to inspire nothing more than a nod or a smile. Even Tyrion, without any responsibilities to steal away his time, seemed content to remain in the company of the Lord Commander. It made sense, Jon thought. Why hang around some random bastard, particularly one who spent his days doing chores with a bunch of other hapless recruits? It didn't sound very entertaining.

Jon closed his eyes, breathing in. Exhaling, he let his mounting frustration roll off him like water down a hill, into a stream and, eventually, out to sea. He felt the same disaffection he'd assumed throughout the week emerge from somewhere in his chest, and he welcomed it greedily, bathed in it, so that his face became as stony as what he imagined his father's to be. Perhaps he'd find Ghost for entertainment. After all, he hadn't come to the Watch to make new friends.

"Really taking in the stink of the place, huh?" Turning to the voice, Jon saw Grenn step inside, a sword in hand. "I'm sure it's to your taste."

"I was just bringing these back," Jon said, cocking a head at the rack of swords.

"Well, you forgot one." Grenn held the blade out. "On the ground. I guess you couldn't see Pimple drop it under that big head of yours."

"… Guess not." Jon walked forward, hand out. "Here, I'll—"

He stopped cold when Grenn swung the blade at him, the arc stopping just short of his neck. Jon looked down at the steel, raising nothing more than a brow.

"Oops." Gendry placed the handle in Jon's outstretched hand. "Almost had you there, Snow. You should work on those reflexes."

Jon could've said that he'd stopped just far enough that the sword wouldn't have hit anything. He could've said that the only reason he hadn't held his arm out to stop it was because the swing would likely have hit his shoulder anyway if he'd continued walking ahead, the dull edge bouncing off uselessly. Instead, he turned around and put the sword in the rack.

"I guess I should."

When he turned back to Grenn, the larger boy was scowling.

"You know, maybe you shouldn't show up tomorrow," Grenn said. "Save us all the trouble of losing."

"We're all required to meet for training."

"You just like stuffing us down, is that it?"

"Not particularly."

Glaring like a demon, Grenn's hand snapped out and caught Jon's collar in a clawing grip, scratching at skin under the cloth. "You bastard… Just looking at your smug face pisses me off!"

Jon looked at the other boy, calm still. Or rather, he forced himself to be calm. He had to fight against the urge to reach up and twist Grenn's arm right out of its socket.

"There's not much I can do about that," he said.

His head snapped back, followed by the rest of his body. Jon found himself on the ground, holding his cheek, vision blurred. He saw Grenn looming over him, hands clenched, chest heaving, and then he was up again, arm jumping up, fist smashing into Grenn's jaw in an uppercut. The sound of teeth snapping together cut across the castle clamor.

Grenn stumbled back, hands over his mouth. He glared at Jon, speechless from pain, before holding a hand out to see it stained with some blood. A bit dribbled out from the corner of his lip, and the sight of it Grenn marched forward, an arm already drawn back. His fury was such that he did not look at Jon as he neared, eyes set forward in blind purpose, and seeing him come Jon felt a rising note of adrenaline up his throat.

"That's enough."

Grenn paused, and Jon had to blink away the adrenaline that had so focused his vision. The two turned to see Donal along with another recruit who Jon recognized as the dreaded prisoner he'd let escape, something he was at the moment too frazzled to really process. As it stood, the man only lingered shyly at the armory's entrance with Donal, pretending not to see either of the two inside.

Donal stepped forward, his single arm still holding the hammer he'd only just been using to pound steel. "I don't care if you bruise each other senseless, but it won't be done at my forge. Take it outside if you must. Better yet, stop acting like overgrown children."

Jon bit back the urge to blame Grenn for starting it, and from the corner of his eye he could tell the other boy had almost done the same for drawing blood. Instead, they stood awkwardly, glancing at the men and then at each other before Grenn grunted and spit a glob of blood onto the ground. Without another word, he walked off, passing silently around Donal and the other man, cradling his jaw all the while. He looked back at Jon, frowning, before rounding the corner.

They all watched him leave, then Donal huffed, waving his hammer carelessly at the armory. "You'll find some over there by the corner. Shouldn't have any rotten through, but I'd pick from the right just in case."

With that, he left as well, walking back around to the forge. It took Jon a moment to realize those words hadn't been meant for him, and by the time he did the other man had closed in. Jon flinched as he neared, but the man merely walked by, heading for the bows hung along the corner wall. Upon reaching them, the man paused, turning to look at him.

"… Would you mind much joining me for target practice? I'm a bit rusty and… well, I guess we should talk."

The man smiled nervously, his large forehead creasing inward. Jon nodded, and saw him pick out two bows along with a quiver full of arrows nearby. The man looped it all over his shoulder with a grace Jon didn't expect and made his way outside. After some hesitation, Jon followed.

The Wall gleamed orange, as if aflame, casting the yard in artificial daylight. Where it anywhere else, candles might've begun to get lit, but at Castle Black the stewards still had an hour with which to save wax before nightfall.

"… What's your name?" Jon asked after some time. They'd set up some forty meters from a target, one among three beside the keep. The other two were unused, most brothers trained in archery out on rangings or merely busy elsewhere. All but this new one, who hit only a few inches off the bullseye.

"Edwen. After my grandfather." Another shot, another swift thump of iron on hay and straw.

This time, he did hit the bullseye. Jon saw this with some surprise, noting Edwen's measured draw, the grace and weight in his stance. The castle-bred boy thought himself better, but not by much, and there was something about the way Edwen reached in his quiver and plucked an arrow without a glance that made him doubt even that.

"You're good," Jon said, leaning against the barrel he'd dragged over to place his own bow on. "I didn't think…"

He stopped himself, but Edwen hummed, smiling sheepishly.

"Didn't think some cowardly horse-thief could know much beside sniveling for his life?"

Jon looked down, arms crossed. "Not how I'd put it."

"Then how _would_ you put it?"

"Well… where'd you learn to shoot? Self-taught?"

Edwen breathed out, slowly slacking the bowstring. Stepping back, he held a hand out at where he'd been standing, the other offering his quiver. A second of pause and Jon had picked up his own bow, taking the quiver and slipping it over his shoulder.

"I practiced a bit on apples hanging from trees as a young'n. Later signed up with Lord Karstark to fight the rebellion."

Jon nocked, drew. "The Greyjoy rebellion?" He loosed the arrow, and it hit close to center, though not as close as the others. He grimaced, then cringed at the way it flexed the bruise quickly purpling on his cheek.

"Aye, to fight the Ironborn. Just a boy, really, looking for action. Couldn't have been much older than you, I think."

Tall. Lithe, though his arms held something of the muscle one would expect from an archer. Hair that slicked down and framed a youthful face. Jon noted all this as he drew again.

"I remember you telling me you had children of your own," he said.

At this, Edwen soured, lips set in a line. "… Just the one. A girl, some four months old now."

"And I let you go for her."

"Aye."

"And now you're here."

"…Aye. Caught me some miles down the road the next morning.

Jon loosed the arrow, and this time it hit center, right beside Edwen's. He gulped, frowning, then puffed his chest and glared at the man.

"If you tell anyone—"

"I won't." Edwen calmly raised his arms in surrender. "Gods, you saved my life!"

Jon glowered at him, hiding his relief with the same stony expression he'd become so adept at using. Truthfully, he had no plan for how to go about an Edwen set on ratting him out. Part of Jon wasn't convinced he would actually carry it out his threat. Another part of him wondered at the ease with which he'd managed to threaten the man in the first place.

A growl. Jon looked down to see that Ghost had chosen that time to pop out from wherever he'd been hiding all day. Teeth blared, the direwolf merely sat and stared menacingly at Edwen, who stepped back, eyes growing wider.

"Down, Ghost."

The wolf quieted. Bending down, Ghost began sniffing at the ground, licking his snout. Jon could hear the sigh come out of Edwen at that.

"I'd almost forgotten about him," Edwen said, smile rattled. "You've a terror of a friend there, Jon Snow."

Ghost now stood at his knees. What had once been a pup sniffing at his heels was now comparable to a full-grown hound, if a bit small for one. Jon hadn't noticed the growth, but now that he did the speed of it made him shiver. For a brief moment, he wondered how much Ghost would grow in the coming months, in the coming years. A strange sensation came over his tongue, and with sudden confusion Jon recognized the taste of blood, a taste which left as soon as it came, slipping away like a dream upon waking.

"I'm glad we're in agreement, then," Jon said, unfocused. He put down his bow, hands trembling. He felt cold. "Farewell, Edwen."

He heard Edwen gasp out half a word as he walked away. He didn't turn around.

"I'll not forget, Jon Snow!" he heard. "You saved my life!"

The words, said spiritedly, served only to hammer at his guilt. The cold penetrated his skin, sinking into muscle and bone. He heard Ghost trotting across the yard beside him, and did not look down at the sole friend he had in the world. Instead, his mind swirled with that abrupt truth. His one friend was a wolf. Though he'd always wanted to be a Stark, the comparison unnerved him more than it pleased him. Edwen's parting words echoed in his head. _I'll not forget Jon Snow! Snow! Snow!_ Though he hadn't been to the top of the Wall since his first day at Castle Black, Jon knew with a certainty he couldn't place that the snow he'd seen creeping southward had leaped forward.

The bruise on his cheek throbbed. Jon put a hand on it, inhaling in pain.

"You look pale, friend!"

Jon stopped and turned in a jolting pivot. Stood before the gate as he always seemed to, Kale waved. That very morning he'd stood before the gate, waving to the small band of rangers off beyond the Wall. If Benjen was to be believed, Kale did this at every ranging, dawn till dusk, ever watchful for those returning.

Looking at the man's friendly face, Jon said the first thing that came to mind.

"My face hurts."

At this, Kale noticed the purple Jon hid behind his hand.

"Ah. Yes, that's hurting alright." The large man drew back. "Here, I've an idea that could help."

Jon looked down at Ghost, who didn't seem hackled and instead looked ready to leave for something more entertaining at any second. He followed Kale, and the two soon stood along the Wall. Kale put a gloved hand on the ice, looked about him. Jon and Ghost waited idly, the former watchful for the other brothers walking by.

Kale grabbed the knife strapped to his belt—a Night's Watch standard, Jon had noticed—and bashed the handle against the ice. He chipped away at it, eventually breaking off a chunk large enough to fill his hand. Stepping back, he huffed and handed the chunk to Jon.

"Here, lay it against your cheek. Should help some, at least."

Jon took the chunk, sticking it against his face with a twinge as it burned cold on his skin. Despite this, he felt a slow release of the chill that had gripped his insides, and Jon found he could breathe deeply again.

"Thank you…" Jon said, sighing. Soon enough, the bruise was numb. Jon nodded toward the hole Kale had made. Relative to the structure itself, the damage was inconsequential, but the ease with which it had been dealt surprised him. "Is it alright to eat at it like that?"

"Oh yes. Where do you think the courts down south get all their ice?" At Jon's uncertain look, Kale chuckled and pointed up. "See for yourself."

Jon drew his head up, eyes scanning the side of the Wall like a solid horizon. He saw a vast and uneven expanse of bluewhite ground, broken up only by the elevator, thin staircases, and the occasional brother hanging by ropes tied to the top. It was this last sight he focused on, having seen them from an even further distance upon first taking in the impressive construct. Now, somewhat closer, Jon saw the bags they each carried with them. Narrowing his eyes even further, he noticed the pickaxes they held, the sprinkle of white dust which popped out in sporadic intervals and drifted to the wind.

"They're all picking away at it?"

The question came out of him more from wonder than curiosity. Kale had followed his gaze, looking fondly up at the black-garbed figures.

"That's right," he said. "Day and night, we've got them in shifts. Mostly builders under the careful eye of Othell, though we've a'times had recruits up there too." At Jon's bleached face, Kale laughed, slapping a hand against the boy's back. "Oh, I'm joking, Jon! We'll not send you greenies up there unless you want it! Not many do, as you might imagine."

Jon rolled his shoulder. The man's arm hit like a horse. "Isn't it dangerous? I suppose the Wall's big enough, but I'd think there's no reason to risk thinning it."

"That's the magic, lad. This here Wall's a tough one." Kale lay his hand against the ice again, smile softening. "Maester Aemon says he can't rightly place whether it's the cold this far north or Brandon the Builder himself come to protect us beyond the grave, but the icy shell always grows back. Even now it grows back, like it's alive."

Frowning, Jon looked at the hole Kale had made, watching for anything.

"I guess it's a bit filled in…"

Kale hummed, looking back at Jon. "Takes time. Long time, but it never stops. I'd not watch for it, though. What's the saying, 'a watched pot never boils?' Regardless, it's come in quite handy for the Watch. Ice straight from the Wall sells well, and gods know we can always use the money."

Jon walked forward, put his own hand on the wall, then leaned his back on it, shoulders sagging. It was cold even through his furs. When he sighed, he saw the frost in his breath. He noted the brothers passing by, their patchy coats. He noted the castle walls, cracked and in some areas outright crumbled. He remembered dinner that night, the slop he'd likely be served, along with the piss drink they called mead.

"We certainly can," Jon said.

Kale must've heard the defeat in his voice. He patted Jon's shoulder, leaning at his side. "Look up, lad. The place might be rough around the edges, sure. More than anywhere else in the kingdoms even. But a home's a home. Better than what many have out there."

"I thought…" Jon drifted off, unsure. If anything, he didn't want anyone to listen to him complain.

A gust raced through the yard, ruffling his hair. Ghost drew closer, sitting by his feet, and even Kale breathed out a lungful of fog.

"Twenty years here and I'm still not used to it," Kale said, crossing his arms, hugging himself against the wind. "You northerners might not understand this, but this place is damn cold, even in the depth of spring."

"We're not even out of spring yet."

"Don't remind me…"

"Why stand out here all day then? Twenty years here, I'm sure you could pile the task on someone else."

Kale smirked at him. "Volunteering, are you?" At Jon's grimace, he laughed. "Oh, don't pay me any mind, Jon. _Someone_ needs to open and close this thing," Kale said, pointing a thumb at the gate. Then, smile softening, he sighed. "And, well… Cold as it is here, it does me good to offer up what warmth I can. I'd not last a day out on a ranging, but I like to think a laugh or two can help the boys who do go out."

Jon stared at him.

Hearing his silence, Kale combed his beard. "Mayhaps it's silly…"

"No! No, I mean…" Jon finally noticed the wetness on his face, and taking his hand away, saw that the ice had melted to almost nothing. His cheek was numb, thankfully, and save for some discomfort he could hardly feel the bruise. "I think it's a very honorable thing."

He thought of Sam, and Grenn and the rest of the new recruits. He'd kept himself away from them for reasons he barely understood. The Watch wasn't what he'd been expecting, that was certain, but now he could barely remember the image he had in mind whenever Benjen visited Winterfell, riding in all in black like some altered knight. Wearing those same clothes, Jon felt the exact opposite.

His stomach growled, a sound like rubber twisting on itself.

"Sounds like you could eat something," Kale said.

"Right." Jon pushed off the ice, drying his hand on his cloak. "I'll see if there's anything left at the hall. Thank you for the ice, Kale, and for… Well, thank you."

Kale watched him go. "You're welcome, I suppose." He combed his beard again, then looked down at Ghost, who didn't look about to leave. Crouching, Kale scratched the direwolf, under his ear. "You're a quiet one, aren't you?"

Only a smattering of brothers remained in the hall by the time Jon entered. The wind outside, beginning to howl with the darkening sky, shut out along with the closing of the door, and all Jon could hear in the large room were whispered conversations over a snapping fireplace.

The head table was entirely empty, all save for Tyrion, who had no responsibilities to get back to and therefore could afford to take his time. The dwarf looked over at him, raised his goblet, and at Jon's nod got back to eating. Jyck sat beside him, with Morrec likely in the stables feeding their horses. Alone as they were, there was plenty of space beside them.

But Jon already had a seat saved somewhere else. He turned to the only table in the hall with more than a couple of men.

Night's Watch recruits spent their first few weeks on the Wall training and doing chores, and it was during this time that their character and skill would be judged by their seniors. Those deemed worthy would be allowed to take their vows, while those found wanting would traditionally be turned away, thrown to a long trek back home. In recent years, with the surge of criminals without anywhere else to turn, the traditional decline slowly shifted to a mere delay, so that recruits not allowed to become brothers in full would be given as much time as it took to prove themselves. Either that or, as a last resort, the death penalty they had escaped in the first place.

Outside of their two core duties, then, Night's Watch recruits had plenty more time than their pledged counterparts, though they might not always recognize it. So, when Jon turned to the only crowded table, he wasn't surprised to find his fellow recruits, most of whom he'd left after training that day.

Without a word, Jon walked towards them and, upon reaching the bench, sat and began serving himself with what little scraps were left. The conversation quieted. Jon could feel their eyes like stones against his skin.

"Why, hello Jon!" Sam was sat right across from him, a conscious decision on Jon's part. "I hope you—" Sam's eyes widened. "Oh, what happened? Did you fall?"

Jon raised a hand to his cheek, which had begun throbbing again, if mildly. He shot a look over at Grenn, who looked back at him with equal stern apprehension. The other boy had an equally purple bruise on his chin.

"I didn't watch where I was going," Jon said. "My fault."

The two stared each other down, until finally Grenn scoffed and gobbled a spoonful of his soup.

"Shows where all that castle training'll get you," he said. "Can't even walk straight, can you, Snow?"

The others chuckled, but for once Jon didn't feel insulted. Instead, he managed a smile of his own. "Truth is, they have us run into walls on purpose," he said. "Toughens you up, but scrambles your brains forever."

This got a few laughs too. Soon enough, Pyp joined in and took all the attention, fortifying the clownish reputation he'd already made for himself. Jon chatted with Sam awhile, ate his fill of bread and jerky, and watched along with the others as Halder arm wrestled all comers. He even tried his own hand at it, though he lost not five seconds in, which elicited another round of jeers.

Jon took them in stride. Later, as they walked out of the hall onto their late night chores, Jon saw Grenn nursing his jaw, as if trying to find a loose tooth. When Grenn caught him looking, the boy spat on the ground.

"I'll admit," Grenn said, "those walls you lot run into work wonders if you're the average castle bloke."

"Takes years of practice," Jon said.

For the rest of the night, they helped some the castle builders oil rusty doors for the coming winter.


	5. Chapter 5

"I'd say one or two more days of this mess is enough for me," Tyrion said. He waddled beside Jon across the yard, looking a puffball in all his furs. A breeze blew by, and he shivered against it. "Yes, one or two more days and I'm riding south where the weather makes sense."

"I'm somewhat surprised you've spent as much time here as you did already," Jon said.

Jon and the rest of the recruits had been up for some two hours now, always woken as they were by a steward's bell before sunrise, so he'd had time to settle into the early morning air. The same could be said for the other black brothers out and about, the seniors long used to it and the recruits determined to survive the routine. Tyrion, however, still yawned after every other sentence.

"Yes, well, I've somehow managed to turn this pleasure trip into yet another business venture, little profit as there is in it," Tyrion muttered.

A laugh drew their attention, and both turned to see Kale and Pyp by the gate. Pyp said something that got another booming laugh from the large man, eliciting a round of ribbing and backslapping on the part of the former.

"Looks like they've hit it off," Tyrion said.

"Kale's the friendly sort," Jon said. He smirked. "And Pyp found himself a good way to skip out on chores."

Tyrion watched Jon's face carefully. "You're not doing the same right now?" The boy's smile slipped, and Tyrion allowed himself a chuckle. "I'm happy to provide an excuse."

"What did you have to tell me anyways?" Jon asked, ears burning.

The dwarf stopped, eliciting Jon to do the same. He took a second to rummage in his pocket, then drew a small, rolled up piece of parchment. A raven's message.

"Just came in today," Tyrion said, voice soft. "Apologies, but I took the pleasure of reading. It's about your brother Bran."

Jon swiped the parchment in a hurry, unrolling it with such force to almost rip it in half. Frowning in concentration, he recognized Robb's hand almost immediately.

_Jon,_

_Bran woke up!_

At this, Jon closed his eyes, sighing and releasing a breath he only then recognized for the pressure he'd been holding in his chest since leaving Winterfell. Bran was well. Bran was well. Thank the gods.

"My, what's this?" Tyrion said. "A happy Jon Snow? I'd lost all hope for it…"

Jon shoved Tyrion with his foot, ignored the following bark of laughter, and read on.

_I'll not soften things. Maester Luwin says he's likely to never walk again. The bones are shattered beyond help. Now he rests on his bed day and night, has his meals brought to him, and I know it pains him to feel useless more than it pains any of us. But he's alive and awake, and I'm grateful for that much, as I'm sure you are._

_Father's job is difficult but nothing I can't handle. Ser Rickard makes for a duller sparring mate than you, and Theon is useless with a sword as you know. Bran and I miss you, and are waiting for you and uncle Benjen to share some stories whenever you both come to visit._

_Write back._

_Robb_

Jon's hands curled into fists, crumpling the paper. He looked at Tyrion.

"I… I've no clue where to find some parchment…"

Tyrion patted Jon's knee, tutting. "Worry not, Jon. In my great magnanimity, I'll make sure to send someone to bring you some. I'll even include some ink as well. And a quill pen. Aren't I just grand?"

Jon huffed, but despite himself, he couldn't wipe the smile from his face. "Any bigger and your head won't let you walk."

"More room for the brain, cramped as it is."

Shaking his head, Jon looked down to reread the message, ach syllable warming him.

"Tyrion," he said, "thank you. Really."

Tyrion waved off the words. "No bother. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've a Lord Commander to annoy." He walked away, towards the keep. "Watch for Morrec. He'll be the dunce in Lannister colors."

"That's no way to talk about yourself."

"Ha!"

Jon watched him leave, feeling a twinge at the thought that he'd not have such banter once the dwarf went back south.

"Oi, Jon!"

The voice came from his right. Jon turned and saw a crew of other recruits, some five or six, led by one of the builders, every one carrying a bucket and one of the small, worn pickaxes they'd all gotten used to handling over the previous two weeks. Edwen was among them, along with Grenn, who carried a second set of tools and marched up to him with one of them held out in earnest.

"You're with us today," Grenn said, shoving the bucket and axe into his chest. Jon had to catch them before they fell off, Grenn having let go as soon as they scratched his shirt. "Up and at 'em, Lord Snow."

Jon rolled his eyes, but joined the group on their way to the elevator, knowing the task would take all afternoon. He'd have to hope that Morrec would know where to find him.

They spread out over the Wall, chipping at the humps of ice which covered the stone battlements underneath like thick, spiked teeth. It was why they were there; without any maintenance, all the notches which could provide archers with a safe place to aim from would be similarly filled up with ice and snow. The walkway, usually accompanied only by open skies and the odd brother on patrol, now echoed faintly with the constant dink of iron.

Their group had been up there for hours, all under the watchful eye of Dyne, the builder charged with supervising them all. Even now he paced back and forth the walkway, rather bored like the rest, more there out of obligation than any real need.

Jon had by this point finished squaring out a few of the parapets. Grenn worked some ways down, but Edwen kneeled just an arms-length away, striking at the ice with the harshness of one content to leave the finer details to someone else.

With a heave, the man stood, leaning on the ice. Jon continued to work, noting the movement out the corner of his eye.

"Part of me still can't believe this place is real," Edwen said.

"Aye," Jon said. His head swerved to spot Dyne rounding back their way. "Don't get caught lazing about now."

Grunting, Edwen crouched, then simply sat. "It'll take all day to make as much as a on something so big."

It was true, Jon knew. Walk far enough along the walkway and one would be sopped by a hill of ice at least ten feet high, a result of unmanned castles without their own clean up crew. What little space they could carve out for themselves on the battlements was relegated to the space above Castle Black itself and a half a mile out, necessitating a constant patrol along the south side of the Wall to pick off the odd wildling brave enough to jump over. Lucky for them, in all the thousands of years that the Wall had separated the northerners from the wildlings, there had yet to be a whole invasion made up of expert and organized climbers, likely because what little chance there was of such a thing would be dashed the moment any wildling group tried to seriously organize.

Still, Jon had no qualms about the task. Its mundanity reminded him of the many hours he spent on the training yard, at times alongside Robb and Theon under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrik, at times by himself in the evening and morn. Some of his fellows couldn't quite seem to settle into the routine; Grenn muttered complaints under his breath at any chore, Sam struggled with all from lifting to dexterous organization, and Pyp had practically skipped out on most of it.

Edwen, however, seemed more at ease than any other. Rather, his mind seemed always elsewhere, so that Jon thought him distracted even as he mechanically followed the instructions of their seniors. Even now, Jon could tell something rattled at the man's mind.

They'd not talked much over the previous days, and what little conversation they did have was rather strained on Jon's end, considering their past. Still, they'd be brothers for life soon enough, and Jon figured he'd already made some headway in salvaging his reputation with his peers, so he spoke up.

"Thinking about your family?"

Edwen perked up at that, twisting toward him almost as if struck. Then, slowly, he turned back around. He sighed, and Jon almost regretted asking.

Dyne ambled by, eyes passing lazily over them as they pretended at picking ice into their buckets. All the while, Jon thought over how to take his question back, and when he saw that the builder was out of earshot he made to do so.

"Sorry, that's not my—"

"I owe you an apology, Jon."

At this, Jon raised a brow. Edwen sighed again, slouching, pickaxe dropping to the floor. The man turned and leaned his back against the parapet, facing Jon, and Jon turned to face him, confused. Then, an idea struck him, and Jon rose in sudden fury.

"Don't tell me you lied—"

Just as fast, Edwen threw his hands out, eyes wide. "What? No! No, that's not what I… I mean, I did, but not about that… I…" He groaned, rubbing at his eyes. "Let me explain. It's not what you think."

More confused than before, Jon's glare softened, turning to a mild frown. He crossed his arms against the cold. "What is it?"

"Back in the forest. When you had your sword pointed at my throat, I used my family as… Well, as an excuse. I love them, I do, but if I'm honest, all I could think of in that moment was how I could escape with my life." Edwen shook his head, a rueful smile twitching on his lips. He looked back at the lands beyond the Wall, and Jon followed his gaze, if only to avoid the discomfort of watching another man's face look so raw. "Gods, it's pathetic, really. For a second, I truly thought you'd cut my neck open, you know that? I thought I was as good as dead, and the only thing I could think of weren't my wife or daughter. I didn't care to see them again. I only wanted to live. I wanted to run away. So I played on your pity. I'm sorry for that. As much as a coward like me can be sorry."

Jon listened and wasn't sure how to respond, so he stayed silent. What did it matter now? Coward or not, Edwen was a brother of the Watch in all but name, same as he. Jon couldn't find it in himself to feel angry at the man. All he could feel was that old shame, because in his heart he knew that what had stilled his blade was his own cowardice, and in that sense maybe they weren't much different. They looked out together at the true north, listening to the rising round of wind and the picking of ice.

After some time, Edwen spoke, voice soft.

"The wildlings call themselves the Free Folk. Did you know that?" he said. Jon merely hummed in response. "I heard it from a ranger during dinner last night. To them, people north of the Wall are the only ones truly free. Us southorns are the ones caged up behind a hunk of rock."

Jon scoffed. "And by contrast they're free to catch frostbite in all that snow," he said, voice low and sardonic.

"To be fair, it's not much better here when it comes to that," Edwen said, chuckling. He shrugged, pulling his cloak tighter around him. "Back in the rebellion—the Greyjoy's rebellion that is—I thought I might make some way for myself. If I killed a few of those whoresons and caught a lord's eye, or even a knight, or someone. At least I might come back home with some gold, I thought. Might make the whole affair worthwhile."

"Did you?"

"Aye, some. Enough to buy two-odd cows of my own. My good-father gave me his daughter's hand because of those cows."

"Not a bad deal."

"Not at all, no. And she's a good lass. I do love her, I suppose. But gold runs out, and winter always comes. And when I saw my daughter for the first time, I thought…" Edwen's voice cracked. He gulped. "I thought that she'd not live through the snows, and there were nothing I could do about it. "

And now, sent to the Wall, there really was nothing Edwen could do about it. The irony crossed Jon's mind, but he left it unsaid.

"I just thought it sounded nice," Edwen said. "Free Folk. No noble folk, no smallfolk. Just free folk."

It was getting dark. Jon's frown deepened against a sudden gust of wind. "Even the wildlings have their chieftains. And even the wildlings die in winter." he said. "No one's truly free."

"Mayhaps that's so," Edwen said. "Yes. Mayhaps that's so."

They finished an hour later with the darkening sky. What little progress they'd made, they knew, would be undone overnight. Come morning, another group would have to take up the task. Again and again, brothers would climb up the Wall and chip away at the battlements, fighting fruitlessly against the ice.

The hall was full. Brothers shared bread, passed plates, screamed over their own chatter, warmed only by their general huddle and the single fireplace crackling across from the kitchens.

"Your face, Lord Snow," Pyp suddenly said, sitting next to him. "It's as if it's made for bouts of depression."

"And yours is made for a gumkin," Jon said, shoulders straightening. Out the corner of his eye, he spotted Edwen making his way out of the hall, one of the first to leave even among the vowed brothers.

Sam, sitting across the table, peered at Pyp, nodding. "It does have that gnomish affectation…"

Pyp's permanent grin widened, curling at the edges. "Aye, I'll grant you all your wishes! What'll it be, Jon, a lovely wench under your sheets? A cauldron full of gold dragons?"

"I'd take a plug for that mouth of yours."

A round of laughs. Pyp joined in as he always did, even if it was at his expense. Next to Jon, Grenn sighed, spoon clattering against his now empty plate.

"Looks like it's another round of chores, then," he said.

"We've still got some time," Sam said.

"Aye, if you want Thorne to beat the slack off you tomorrow."

"Grenny's quite right," Pyp said, standing up. He pounded on the table rather dramatically, the sound eaten up by the general clamor of the hall. "It's about time we all stop our slothful behavior and finally act the brothers we hope to be! Gentlemen, I'll be getting an early start on our evening duties."

Grenn shot Pyp a glare. "You're just leaving to skip out with Kale again, isn't that right?"

Pyp was already walking away, moving backwards, face stricken in offense. "How dare you, you oaf? Why, I'd duel you at once if duty didn't call."

"Yeah, yeah…" Grenn sighed again, watching along with the others as Pyp disappeared behind the door. He turned to them, back straightening. "Well, we might as well join him."

Sam lumbered up, but Jon hesitated. His hand reached into his pocket, finding a rolled up parchment. Morrec had found him some time before, and he'd written his piece. He looked at the head table, finding his uncle feasting with the rest of the leadership. Breathing in, Jon stood up.

"I'll join you in a bit," he said.

At this, Grenn slouched. "Oh, no worry then. We'll wait for you."

"And you call Pyp the lazy one?"

The other boy punched Jon in the arm. It hurt quite a bit, but Jon only smirked in response, then strode over to Benjen. No one stopped him or even gave him much attention. Some days before, this might have surprised him, but now Jon knew whatever he did was the least of everyone's worries.

He reached the head table in little time, with Benjen and Tyrion raising their heads in greeting.

"Uncle," he said, voice low. "I need a quick word. Privately."

Benjen searched his face, then glanced around at the rest, then turned back to him.

"It'll be quick?"

"Aye."

"Very well. Follow me."

Benjen stood up, bowing a bit to Lord Commander Mormont, who only inclined his head in response. Jon followed his example, and when he turned to follow his uncle he could feel some eyes on his back. They walked not toward the exit but to another door, one which led to a dark hallway with only a single torch for light. The sound of chatter dampened behind the door, and Jon could only see a single other brother walking away before disappearing around a corner.

"What's the matter, Jon?" Benjen exhaled, brow furrowed.

"Nothing bad," Jon said. He smiled, taking out the parchment and presenting it to his uncle. "Here. It's a message for Robb and Bran and Rickon. I was meaning to have Lord Tyrion give it to them on his way south, but first I thought you might want to write them as well."

Benjen's shoulders dropped, and it was in that moment of instantaneous relief that Jon realized how tense his uncle had been. Had he truly thought Jon would approach him merely to complain? To have exceeded his expectations was both a pleasant surprise and a strange hit to Jon's pride.

"Give it to Lord Tyrion when you're done," Jon said, nearly shoving the parchment into Benjen's hands. "I trust you'll have ink and quill in your chambers."

He turned to leave, but was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Jon," Benjen said, voice hitched. "I… worried over you at the Wall, I'll admit. Not for lack of zeal on your part. Gods, you're as stubborn as your father. Mayhaps moreso."

Jon hadn't turned to face him. "Then what?"

"I knew you'd do well. Anywhere you went, you'd do well." Here, Jon could hear the smile in Benjen's tone. "But admit it, Jon. You've a habit of getting lost in your thoughts. I'm just glad for you."

Here, Jon couldn't deny his own smile, shy as it was. He looked at his uncle.

"Well… It's better if we all look after each other, right?" he said.

Benjen's smile widened. He took the parchment and threw an arm over his nephew's shoulders, leading the both back into the hall. "Gods be good, we'll make a ranger of you yet!"

They departed from each other at the head table, and as Jon made his way back to the other recruits—to his _friends_ , for he now found he could call them that at least to himself—he felt an elation he'd only ever felt in brief, fleeting moments before. Arya grabbing his hand while learning to walk. He and Robb skipping out on their studies together. Being gifted his first sword by his father, the very blade which even now he had strapped to his horse's saddle. And Jon felt that all was good and fine.

"That's enough lazing about," he said, reaching Grenn and the others.

The big boy turned to greet him, and from behind his shoulders Jon could see another round of arm wrestling. This time some even seemed to be betting coppers.

"Where'd you all even get any coin?" Jon said.

Grenn shrugged. "Name me a place without coin and I'll give you all of mine."

"North of the Wall."

"Ha! I'd bet those wildlings hoard loot as much as anyone else."

"Anyway, come. Let's get to work before Thorne gets bored of stuffing himself."

Grenn slouched forward, looking away. "I've got money on this…"

Jon shook his head, looking toward Sam. "And you, Sam? Don't tell me you'll follow his example…"

"Since when are you the reasonable one…"

"I don't have coin anyway," Sam said, stainding.

"Come on, then. Maybe we can convince Pyp to stop being such a twat." Jon twisted on his heel, heading for the doors outside. Sam followed, walking around the table. "Grenn, I see you're unreachable."

By the time they reached the doors, Grenn had marched up behind them, grumbling all the way. Jon tried and failed to not let his smirk show. He reached up and pushed a door open, then immediately curled into himself, digging his chin into his furs.

Sam breathed out in slow wonder. "Would you look at that…"

It was snowing. Thickly too. The first snow in years, and any doubt they had of winter's coming arrival was now gone. The three stepped out into it, feeling the cold cling to their faces, the snowflakes drift softly onto their hair, and as Jon closed the door behind them the sounds of feasting dulled and were replaced by the still dripping of snow and the low groan of winter breeze. With every step, they heard the minute crunch of ice.

"I wonder if that goof would wait out here even if it meant skipping out on chores," Grenn mumbled.

"Doesn't hurt to check," Jon said. He led them down the steps and out into the yard. They walked toward the gate, hidden as it was behind the night and snow.

"I can hardly remember the last time I saw snow," Sam said. As they walked, the gate became clearer the closer they got to it, shadows slipping into detail. "It really is quite beautiful, isn't it?"

"Sure, if by 'b-beautiful' you mean 'b-bloody freezing," Grenn said, hugging his shoulders.

Jon narrowed his eyes. He figured he would've seen Kale's shape at least, large as the man was. His breath began to hitch, though he knew not why. Something rose up in his chest with every step closer. He could barely hear a low groan above the outdoors static, like a gurgling animal, and as he neared he could see that the gate was _open_.

"I do hope it doesn't carry on like this till morning," Sam muttered.

"You and me both, Piggy."

Jon dashed forward. The other two looked at each other, confused, before striding faster after him. They saw him slide to a kneel, hands brushing snow away from a rather tall mound of it.

Sam reached him first. "Jon, what's—"

His skin paled, so much so that Grenn could hardly separate his face from the snow around them. Grenn opened his mouth, but looking around Jon, his lips clamped shut at the sight.

Red on white, though in the nighttime dark it looked like ink. But Grenn could tell it was red. Only blood could ooze in such a way. It pooled out straight from the heart. Lying cold on the ground, Kale's body stared unblinkingly up at him.

"Oh, Mother," he said, the words coming out by instinct, though he'd never been particularly pious. He stepped back, hand reaching unconsciously up to cover his heart, and he felt it stomp against his chest.

Sam had turned away in a hurry, incapable of looking, shaking in place. Jon pushed down on Kale's chest helplessly, giving up after only a few tries. Even through the clothes and leathers, the body felt cold under his hands. His head snapped around, eyes searching.

"Pyp," he said. Then, louder, "Pyp!"

The low groaning grew louder. Jon dashed toward the sound and found Pyp sat against the Wall, breathing still. His hands went to the other boy's abdomen and were immediately coated in red. He pressed on the wound, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Pyp, who glanced at him with glazed eyes.

"Lord Snow…" Pyp said. His lips twisted into a strained grin. "It seems… I've been shot."

"Shut up," Jon said. Some strange energy had taken hold on him, and he could feel his eyes strain to focus against the dark. "Sam! Your cloak!"

When nothing happened, Jon's head whipped around, at the large boy, glaring fire at his shaking form. "Samwell! Now!"

Snapped back, Sam stumbled over, unstrapping his cloak and handing it over. Jon grabbed a handful of snow and crushed it against Pyp's wound, then held it hard with Sam's furs. As he did, his eyes caught two arrows on the ground nearby, almost covered under the falling snow. Judging by the amount of blood on one comparted to the other, an image came to mind: one arrow zipping straight through Kale, in and out in a second, crashing against the Wall, Pyp turning to look, another arrow missing its mark and striking him in the stomach, digging itself deep, Pyp falling to the ground and crawling up to sit, pulling the arrow out and tossing it away, the shooter flying past, not finishing him off, too busy escaping.

"You shouldn't have pulled it out," Jon said. "You fool!"

By now Grenn had neared, kneeling himself. "Gods, Jon, is he dying? Pyp, are you alright?"

Pyp's eyes slowly rolled over to him. He seemed to drift closer to sleep by the second. "Oh, Grenny… I pulled it out. Bad idea… Bad idea?"

Breathing in, Jon looked about him. Sam stood close, looking away still. He'd be no use here.

"Sam, get back and get help!" he said. "Get a Maester Aemon! Get a steward! Get anyone!"

The large boy nodded, hesitated and, at Jon's glare, dashed back toward the hall.

"Who'd do this?" Grenn muttered. "Isn't the Wall punishment enough? Who in the seven hells would do this?"

Jon furrowed his brow. "Someone with nothing to lose…" He looked back at the arrows, at the open gate. His blood turned to ice.

"Pyp, was he on a horse?" Jon said. He shook the downed boy. "I need you to tell me now! Pyp!"

"Horse… I heard it…"

Yes. A horse, out on the snow to cover his tracks. Jon's hand snapped to Grenn's wrist and brought it up to Sam's cloak, pressing it against Pyp's wound.

"Keep pressure on it," Jon said. "Keep him awake."

"Wh-What? Wait, Jon," Grenn's panicked eyes followed him as he stood. "Where are you going?!"

Jon was already running to the stables. "To catch him before he gets away! Tell the others to follow!"

He reached his horse in a minute, and the next he was saddled and whipping the reins down into a gallop. Whatever tracks had been left near the gate were long gone, but Jon had no need for tracks. This he knew in sudden frenzy, and along with it came the knowledge of Ghost hounding forth alongside him, white fur appearing as if out of the snow itself.

When he reached the gate, he rode past Grenn and Pyp and the few brothers who had made it outside. Sam was among them, as was Benjen. His uncle looked up as he passed, shouting something, but Jon did not hear. All he heard was the pounding of hooves.

Jon remembered his message to Robb, now snuggled safely in Benjen's pocket. Morrec had found him before dinner, looking rather annoyed at being used as a courier, and Jon had been forced to scribble something quick against the wall before the man got tired of holding up his inkwell.

_Robb,_

_At least now you've fewer things to worry about. You're having enough trouble as it is, I know, so no need to lie, brother. In all seriousness, tell Bran how glad I am to know he's awake. Tell him not to be ashamed of anything. Tell him I love him._

_I'm doing fine. Really. The Wall isn't quite the home of scum and villainy we were led to believe. Well, it is, but they're not all too bad. Some of them are highborn, more than you'd expect. And the ones who aren't don't deserve the contempt they get. Not all of them, anyway._

_Though I can't say when we might meet again, I know I'll have many stories to tell. And I'll be clad in black._

_Jon_

Red clung to his clothes now, leaving a smear on his saddle and a trail of droplets in his wake.

"Follow after me!" he screamed, eyes glaring forward. In a second he was riding through the tunnel, and in another he was out the other side.

The soft breeze turned into a howling wind. White filled his vision, an endless white interrupted only by the shadow of the nearing tree line. Jon glared into the thickening snowfall.

"Ghost!"

The direwolf ran ahead, leading the way, nose in the air. Jon could almost smell the blood himself.

As he ran, Jon could feel tears slipping out from the corners of his eyes, slipping cold down his cheeks. Rage powered his legs and his snapping arms, rage at death and at time and at himself. The longer he took, the less chance he had of finding Edwen. And when he did…

_He'd finish what he started._


	6. Chapter 6

Ghost ran ahead of him, and Jon could hardly see the wolf against the snow around him. It fell in a slow, gushing shower, sticking to him as mildew to grass. But he didn't feel the cold; only the burning in his chest, an anger he'd not thought himself capable of. Frustrated tears still streamed out his eyes, whipping out behind him as his horse galloped on through the wood.

It had been fine. Everything had been fine. Then it wasn't, and he had only himself to blame.

Jon tried to picture himself holding the sword to Edwen's neck and slicing the man's head off. He couldn't, not without cringing at the image, and this only caused his rage to grow. A man was dead, a good one, and Pyp might die too, and it would all be because Jon hadn't found it in himself to dole out his father's justice when he had the chance. He still couldn't.

But he would have to. Jon would not allow himself not to. His honor was at stake.

A bark. Ghost veered left, weaving gracefully around the encumbered trees and over snowswept bush. Jon's mount, Steelfoot, didn't have as easy of a time doing the same, but with Jon's swift guidance they made a valiant attempt. Edwen might be a horse thief, likely had ridden enough in the war, but Jon had been on horseback from the moment he'd been capable of straddling one. He was, if nothing else, confident in what those years had given him.

Thinking of this, his hand drifted down to the sword strapped to his saddle. After a moment of hesitation, he pulled it out and, with another moment to stabilize himself on Steelfoot's gallop, he tied the sheathe onto his belt.

Jon was getting closer. He could see tracks now, and he just had a feeling. Something in his gut boiled and bubbled the further he went. Ghost bounded forth still, following the trail with strange precision. Jon realized then with some unnerving clarity that he'd never trained the direwolf to track anything, much less another man. The smell of blood hung thickly now. Had Edwen been injured during his flight? Had he gotten blood on him from Kale or Pyp? Or was it the blood which even now dried on Jon's cloak and gloves?

He saw another horse, and with a gasp pulled the reins and slid Steelfoot to a stop. The horse just stood there, ambling awkwardly in the wood, riderless. Ghost sniffed the air, prowling around the horse, scaring it into a rolling neigh. Jon himself kicked Steelfoot to a walk, looking over the other horse in simmering confusion.

Ghost snapped his head up to the bushes. Jon followed, too late.

A slip of wind. Pain shot through his shoulder and down his arm. The impact knocked Jon off his saddle and onto the ground. He shouted in both pain and surprise, landing with a cushioned thud on soft and reddening snow. Steelfoot neighed, rearing up, kicking at the air. Ghost growled, crouching low, fangs bared at something behind the trees. Gasping for air, hand clutching his shoulder, Jon saw that his direwolf was set to pounce.

"No!" he said, and to his dulled relief the wolf actually listened. "Hide, Ghost. Hide! He'll shoot you!"

Jon stayed low to the ground himself, crawling to position behind the horses. Idly, he saw Ghost dash into the trees, disappearing behind snow-capped leaves, but he was in too much pain to pay it any more mind. An arrow was stuck in his shoulder. _Through_ his shoulder, actually; with a sharp intake of breath Jon ran a hand across his back and felt its tip stabbing out of it.

His vision wavered, head light, but a quick shake of it snapped him back. Where had the arrow come from? He needed time.

"Why, Edwen?" he called. His hand patted around the wound, getting a lay of it. Jon couldn't make himself look.

Not hearing a response, Jon clicked his tongue and tried again.

"You're a dead man! A deserter! The Watch was your last chance!" Feeling some of the old heat rise back up, Jon growled. "And you killed on your way out! How _dare_ you?! They didn't deserve that, you _fuck_!"

Blood poured out of him in long streams. His head swung about again, darkness creeping over his sight. Another shake, another rapid breath, and Jon began packing snow over his wound, ignoring the red slush on which he sat. Every twitch of his arm sent a shiver of pain through his body.

A rustle. Jon threw himself sideways, not bothering to look, and an arrow shot past, disappearing behind the shrubbery with a whistle of air. He peered past the snow and saw a shadow rushing out of cover.

Grunting, Jon shot up and ran, one hand pressed on his wound, the other unclasping his cloak. He darted from side to side, and another arrow whizzed by, lodging itself on a tree ahead with a snap. Cursing, Jon rounded the tree and threw his good shoulder against it. He pulled out his sword with a heave and it slid out with a steely ring. Luckily, he'd not yet lost his sword arm, though the blade was heavy with only one to carry it.

"If you kill me here, you'll just leave more for them to track you down with," Jon said. He didn't shout, but his words carried in the silent air. Behind him he could hear the horses whine, trotting back and forth, uncertain as he.

Jon drew his sword up before him, the steel polished to a clean gleam. He'd yet to truly use it, ever. Its sharp edge seemed to cut through the snowfall, and Jon could make out his own reflection on its surface. That, and a bow being drawn.

He ducked, feeling the wind whip over him as an arrow slid through where his head had been. It clipped the wood, gouging out a nick on the tree trunk and zooming out of sight. Without a second thought, Jon leaped out, running toward the archer. He saw Edwen running back, trying to fall into shadows again, but Jon was faster despite the pain.

"Stop!" He said, and to his shock Edwen did, pausing ahead. That shock turned to panic when the man twisted, arrow notched on his bowstring and pointed right at him.

Their eyes met for the first time, and Jon could see his own fear reflected on Edwen's face. A gleam of his eyes too, and at spotting it, Jon dived, narrowly avoiding the arrow which stabbed into the snow behind him.

Jon stood up again, sword drawn back. He was close enough, one more step and he'd be within range, but in that moment his knees buckled. His head spun, vision blackened. Too much blood lost. Looking behind him in a daze, Jon saw the red trail he'd left behind him, from there to the tree he'd hidden behind to the red pile of mud by the horses.

Eyes drooping, Jon looked up at Edwen. The man breathed heavily, almost as heavily as Jon himself, looking down at the boy and notching another arrow. Jon noted there weren't many left in his quiver.

"I should've killed you when I had the chance," Jon said, both to Edwen and to himself. He saw something out the corner of his eye, a white bulge on the ground. It shifted, but he kept his eyes on the arrow pointed at his head.

Edwen slowed his breath, aiming the shot with something akin to pity. "Maybe so, Jon. But now you'll not leave me be."

Jon gripped his sword handle, readying himself. He could feel the nudge in his head, a strange touch of something warm. He tugged at it, and suddenly smelled all the blood in the world. This, he knew, was not his.

"Let me ask you one thing," Jon said. He drew himself up, back straightening, though Edwen's arrow kept him on his knees. "Was any of it true? Anything at all?"

Edwen stared down at him. "No," he finally said. "And it's no lie when I say that I'll take no pleasure doing this." He pulled the bowstring wood creaking.

Jon bared his teeth. "I will."

He tugged at the warmth, pulled it fully into himself. With a deep, guttural roar, Ghost leaped into view, biting into Edwen's bow arm. The arrow loosed. In that instant, Jon shot forward, kicking the ground with an audible crunch, sword slicing through snow and air, head tilting sideways. He felt a cut on his cheek, but drew his blade around in a gleaming arc before him.

Edwen's bow arm flew up in a spray of blood. His screams followed shortly after, not helped by Ghost's hold on his leg. The wolf pulled him to the ground, then pulled again and again, tearing open cloth and flesh.

Jon watched it in a daze, the warmth in his head all-consuming. He could taste metal, as if it dribbled out his throat. He saw all the blood in a frenzy, heard Edwen's screams turned to wailing cries, Ghost's savage growling. He dropped his sword, steel thumping softly into the snow. The wind had picked up.

Something burned on his face. Reaching up, Jon dabbed at his cheek and saw fresh blood on his fingers. The warmth disappeared, like water pouring out in a stream.

"Ghost, that's enough."

The direwolf didn't listen, tearing into Edwen still.

" _Ghost!_ "

Immediately, the wolf stopped. Ghost stepped away from the body, white fur covered in blood, tongue lapping it up, red eyes staring up at Jon. As usual, Jon could see no anger or fear in them, merely an observant curiosity. Ghost padded over to him, then reached up and against his leg. Uncertain, Jon rubbed Ghost's head, covering it in more blood, but the wolf seemed content nevertheless.

Edwen had stopped screaming, though a low groan trembled from his throat. Blood poured out his arm in routine gushes, and Jon could see the rest of the limb up to the elbow lying some feet away. He pushed Ghost off him, and the wolf padded over to the arm, licking up its blood.

His shoulder hurt more than ever. His head felt light enough to pop out of his neck. Jon bent over to pick up his sword and walked toward the downed man, kicking away the bow that had fallen in his path. Snow continued to fall, perhaps more heavily than before, though the trees above did a good job of covering him from the worst of it.

Jon loomed over the dying man, panting.

"I should've killed you before," he said again.

Edwen gasped for breath on the ground, squirming in a red mud pile. Jon watched him, trying to raise his sword, but it was too heavy for one arm as tired as he was. His knees were shaking already. He glanced briefly over at Ghost, but shook his head. The wolf had his fill already. With a heavy grunt, Jon swung his sword up onto his shoulder looking straight into Edwen's eyes.

"Any last words?" Jon said.

Gasping, Edwen's lips moved but made no sound. He looked up at Jon as if straining to see. Finally, his voice came, stilted and halting.

"I wanted… to r-run away," he said. Tears poured form his eyes, whether from pain or terror or both, Jon did not know. "I wanted to r-run away! I w-wanted to run away… I wanted t-to r-run away…"

He babbled on, voice drifting into incomprehensible garble. Jon heard his words, feeling despite himself some amount of pity. He fought it, angered at his softness. But as much as he tried, he could find no joy in the sight of Edwen's broken form. Somber, he swallowed down the ensuing despair and stepped around to line up the cut, kneeling to prepare his arc.

"Then in the name of… of…" Jon wavered, then tightened his grip on the handle. "In the name of Kale of the Riverlands and the mummer Pypar, and in the name of my father Eddard of the House of Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and the old gods of the First Men… by the word of Jon Snow… I sentence you to die."

He lifted the sword as high as he could above his head, arm shaking in effort. With a great heave, Jon brought the blade down.

Soon after, Benjen and a few other rangers found him lying on the snow surrounded by blood, vomit coating his lips, Ghost nudging at him with a red-soaked snout. Edwen's body lay on its back, leg torn and arm sliced off. His head lay alone, cut roughly out, face frozen in death.

The maester's chambers looked more a lost library than a place where someone slept. Filled bookcases flanked the door, the tall windows, even the bed. Tables were littered with glass tubes and vials, some carrying liquids of rainbow colors, others empty and filled only with dust. A Myrish eye sat from the nightstand, pointed up at the nearby window. The room itself was dark even in candlelight, as if naturally inclined to it, hiding its black carpet in shadow.

Jon sat on a table propped against the stone wall, gasping in quick spurts every time the old steward Clydas stuck him with the needle. Maester Aemon stood nearby, leaning heavily on his cane but refusing to sit during the stitching even though he was blind and only Clydas came second to him in age and experience. Though Jon knew the maester couldn't see him, he still felt unnerved by the glazed eyes, feeling them peer into him in a way he couldn't quite place. The arrow that had stuck to his shoulder now lay alongside him in its own puddle of blood.

His back had already been sewn up, and it now throbbed in numb pangs of discomfort. They'd spilled some fire wine on the wound, though not before giving Jon a healthy dose to drink. Even with the warmth this brought to his chest, Jon's whole body still coiled and tensed like a rabbit in hunt.

"You're a quiet one," Maester Aemon said.

Clydas said. "With how drunk we got him, I'm not surprised."

"It doesn't hurt much," Jon said, not all that drunk. He grunted at another stitch. "Ah... Though I'll admit it's no mere scratch."

"Not like your face," Clydas said. "Small by comparison, but both will scar regardless."

By reflex, Jon's hand came up to his cheek. He'd not needed stitches for it, but Clyde had wrapped a bandage around his head to stop the bleeding.

"Oh, what's a life lived without a few scars?" Maester Aemon said, smiling.

The door swung open, and in walked three men: Lord Commander Mormont, Benjen, and to Jon's surprise, Ronald, the very same prisoner who he and his party had escorted to the Wall all those days before. On the Lord Commander's shoulder perched a raven, far larger than any Jon had seen before. As soon as they entered, it cawed and flew out to the window frame, looming over them with queer, beaded eyes.

Before Jon could say anything, Benjen marched over to him, nearly shoving Clydas out of the way, and cuffed him on the head.

Jon yelped, and Clyde glowered at the ranger.

"I've just about patched him up," the steward said. "I'd be grateful if you don't knock him unconscious again. Hard enough to wake him the first time."

Benjen ignored him, turning his own glower on his nephew. Jon couldn't quite meet the man's eyes.

"You foolish boy," Benjen said. "Had I found you any later you'd have bled out in the middle of nowhere. What would I say to your father then?"

Jon bowed his head, thoroughly shamed. "I'm sorry, uncle."

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Benjen paced, hands on his hips, sighing in heavy, flustered breaths. "It's not like you, Jon! You're not the impulsive sort. What in the seven hells possessed you to ride out on your own? What possessed you to ride out at all? You're not even vowed, much less a ranger. You nearly died!"

His shoulders slumping lower with every word, Jon grunted one last time as Clydas snapped the string and tied the stitches on his shoulder.

The steward stepped back. "It'll take a week or two to heal," Clydas murmured. "You'll want to keep the stitches for that long, at least. Then there might be some soreness for a month or more."

Jon nodded, looking about the room at the others. Maester Aemon seemed content to listen, half-cast in shadow from the few candles around the room. The Lord Commander and his strange guest stood watching him, the former stern and the latter shifting nervously in place. Benjen didn't let off his glare.

"It was my fault," Jon said. He breathed deeply, fighting off the tremble in his voice. "When we were riding up here, and he escaped… I did catch him. I had him dead to rights. But I lied to you and let him go, because I felt sorry for him. And for that, Kale and even Pyp…" His breath hitched, and he kept his eyes pointed straight down at his knees. "Please, forgive me, uncle..."

Benjen's own breathing stopped cold. "Gods, Jon."

Jon could see his uncle nearing from the corner of his eye, and he closed his eyes, ready for another pounding. Instead, Jon felt a hand land softly on his head, pulling him roughly against Benjen's chest. The man's other arm wrapped around his good shoulder.

"You foolish boy," Benjen said. "I thought you'd died. For a second, I looked at you there on the ground and thought you'd died. Do you understand that?"

Slowly, Jon used his good arm to hug Benjen back. "Aye, Uncle Benjen" he said simply, throat constricting. "Aye."

"I can't blame you for something you couldn't have possibly known would happen," Benjen said. "But please, don't ever do something so reckless again."

They held each other, and for the brief time it lasted, Jon allowed himself this dip back into childhood.

Eventually Benjen released his nephew. They looked at each other, Benjen nodding, and Jon wiped some of the wetness that had built up on his eyes. He turned to the Lord Commander, who had stood by quietly all throughout. Jon felt embarrassed by this, but tried to regain some of the stoicism he'd thought himself a master of.

"Sorry, Lord Commander," Jon said, sniffling. "How can I help you? And, um…" He glanced at Ronald. "No offense, but what business have _you_ here?"

"He insisted," Mormont said, stepping closer. "But first, Snow, I'd like you to tell me what happened out there. Don't leave a thing out of it."

Jon looked to Benjen. The ranger nodded, so he sighed and begun the tale from beginning to end. He started, rather stubbornly, with his own failure on the way to Castle Black. Nervously, he kept his eyes on the Lord Commander, waiting for some indication of punishment. Surely there must be some, right? Edwen's actions might not have been entirely within his control, but letting go of a convict must be a crime of some sort in itself.

But Mormont's face stayed drawn in stern attention. Jon went on about finding Kale's body, and talking to Pyp as the boy bled against the Wall. He had to pause at this, not quite believing their deaths.

As soon as he'd woken up, he'd asked. Of course he had. Maester Aemon had said the young recruit made a brave attempt, but had ultimately lost too much blood. Jon had suspected this would be the case even as he rode out through the gate. The idea had risen up in him in blunt shock the moment he'd spotted Pyp's slack form. Waking up, Jon hoped his intuition would prove wrong, but it had not, and so he'd clawed at the wine Clydas had offered him in feverish enthusiasm. Even now that the alcohol coursed in his veins and slurred the ends of his words, the knowledge of Pyp's death sobered him far more than anything else.

He explained how Ghost had led him through the snow and forest, pausing briefly to allow Benjen's own aside. The ranger had drafted two others to follow after Jon, and though they'd been right at his heels, he'd gone out of sight. They'd brought a hound, not to mention their own years of experience, yet their arrival, while impressive, had come too late to help Jon during his encounter. When Benjen asked how Ghost could have gotten such a good bead on Edwen's scent, Jon could not answer. The direwolf had come back with them and disappeared into the woods south of the Wall almost as soon as they reached the gate.

Jon described the ambush, his injury, and the subsequent battle in the forest.

"Ghost got to him before he could shoot me," Jon was saying, finishing up. "Honestly, he would've killed me in the end if not for Ghost."

"And the body?" Mormont said. He peered into Jon's eyes, and the boy had to look away. "You say you cut his arm off, and your wolf explains the leg. But what of his head? Why cut that off?"

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword," Jon said softly.

"Yet you had no authority to sentence death on anyone."

"No. But he'd have died regardless by then." Jon put a hand on his injured shoulder, feeling its stable tension. "I had to kill him. Not Ghost, not the gallows, not his bleeding stump. Me. It was my responsibility. Otherwise…" He swallowed some bile. "Otherwise, what kind of man am I?"

"No man," Benjen said. "Not yet."

Mormont's raven cawed above them. _"Not yet! Not yet!"_

They all glanced at the bird, all unnerved save Aemon, who didn't pay it mind, and Mormont, who was surely used to it.

"Not a man, with blood on his hands?" the Lord Commander said, voice light. "I'd say you've missed out on his burgeoning years, Stark." Sighing, he slapped Ronald's shoulder, shaking the man to attention. "Well, out with it, then. You've a reason to be here, do you not?"

"R-Right." Ronald's hands came together. For the first time, Jon noticed the sharpness of his features. Though he was rather large, his nose in particular seemed thin and pointed. "Snow. Jon. Well…" he begun kneading at his knuckles, as if to crack them. "I wanted to apologize. Edwen, see, he were my brother."

_"Brother! Brother!"_

Of all things Jon had heard and done that day, this was likely the most surprising. He couldn't help the look of pure bafflement which consumed his face.

"Your brother?"

Ronald nodded.

"He never mentioned a brother," Jon said. "How could he not? You were in the same place all along."

"Edwen was avoiding me these past few days. I don't blame him." Ronald sighed. "It were my fault we got caught in the first place, after all. He's used to tiptoeing and such. I'm the clumsy one, and it brought us both here." He looked Jon in the eyes. "I can't fault you for killing him, Snow. You did what you had to. If anything, you even showed him some mercy in not handing him over to the Watch. Better to put him out of his misery then and there than hang him after days in a cell."

Jon leaned back, resting against the wall. "I can't accept your guilt. You've nothing to forgive."

"No. I've only grief." Ronald looked down, voice softening. "If I'm honest, I always feared for him. Ever since he came back from the war..."

Jon raised a brow. "The war? You mean the Greyjoy Rebellion? I thought Edwen _wanted_ to go. Said he was looking for adventure."

At this, Ronald barked out a laugh. "He told you that, did he? Well…" He looked off, toward the window. "I suppose there's something to that, but the truth is it were no choice of his. Not fully, anyway."

"A draft then," Maester Aemon said. Jon startled at his voice, having forgotten the man was there. He slouched forward on his cane, resting on his arms. "Though from what I understand, tradition dictates the _elder_ son go off for king and country."

Breathing out a cloud of cold vapor, Ronald nodded. "A man rode in through our village, saying a war was coming and Lord Karstark would need men to march under his banner. Said we had to send a man from each household. As the eldest, it were my duty to go. It should've been, but…"

Jon watched the man pause, hesitating. He felt then a return to days before, like he was speaking to the brother himself once again. "But you were too scared to die," he said, knowing it without a doubt.

 _"Die_ _! Die!"_

Ronald nodded, face slack. "I was, gods damn me. I would've gone anyway, but Edwen must've seen my tremors, because he volunteered in my place. To my shame, I was actually relieved. Can you believe that? Saved by my younger brother, and I'm glad for it."

Jon followed his gaze, looking out the window himself. The candlelight cast a transparent, orange glare upon it, providing them all with ample reflection. Ronald could see himself almost as if in a mirror, and Jon could see him see himself, dazedly staring at his own image.

"... I was glad, aye, until he came back," Ronald said. "Just a few months later, but there were something in him that just… died. Even when he married. Even when he sired a child. He could laugh and drink as always, but I could see whatever joy he was given, it couldn't fill up that death in his eyes." He breathed out, shaky. "Gods… How miserable he must've been…"

Jon watched uncomfortably as Ronald put a hand to his face, shoulders shaking.

"I just wish he needn't have died… That there were some other way…"

Quickly, as if just then realizing where he was, Ronald sniffed and straightened, blinking rapidly. He looked around him at the others, a shaky smile coming to place before staring off into the corner.

"Well, I just figured you deserved to know," he said. "The man who shot you, he weren't the brother I knew. Hadn't been for a long time."

They all sat in the silence of the moment. Ronald's brother or not, Edwen had killed in cold blood. This they all knew. Jon knew it. And yet, now that it was all said and done, he could feel no relief. Like Ronald, there was only grief. For Kale, for Pyp, for Ronald, even for himself. Even for Edwen.

Clydas shot forward then. "Oh, blast it!"

Jon flinched at the sudden sound, eyes shooting to the old steward. Seeing the man's eyes on his shoulder, he looked down and saw that the wound had begun to bleed again, spilling down his arm in a thin red river.

"We've to bandage this one too, of course," the man said, pulling white strips from the roll on the table. "Come closer, boy."

Jon leaned forward, allowing for the bandages to spin around his arm and chest. Humming, Mormont went for the door at steady steps.

"I suppose I'll leave the healers to it, then," he said. "Come see me in the morning, Snow."

Tiredly, Benjen followed the Lord Commander along with Ronald, the only one to hesitate.

"Get some rest, Jon," Benjen said.

Jon watched them leave, befuddled at the sudden exit. "Wait," he said, "that's all?"

Pausing at the door, Mormont glanced at a sheepish Benjen before turning to the man's nephew. He gave the boy an amused smile. "What else should I do? You meted out justice. A bit messy for my tastes, but the world's a messy place."

Benjen threw him a half-smile. "Unless you'd like us to chain you up in the cells?"

Jon shook his head, fervent, watching the men leave. Clydas, for his part, grumbled all throughout, unfurling the bandages on Jon not a second after having tied them.

"I forgot the ointment," Clydas said. He yawned, bending down to rummage under the table with heavy eyes. "Swan's touch. It won't help the wound close, but it'll ease the pain. You'll not sleep much otherwise."

"I can administer it, Clydas," Maester Aemon said, shuffling closer with a tap of his cane. "It's far too late for someone your age. Why don't you allow me and find some sleep yourself?"

Placing the green-tinted jar on the table, Clydas blinked, as if to wake himself. "Maester Aemon—"

"You've quite the walk to your chambers, whereas I've got my bed right here," Aemon said. His hand tapped Clydas' shoulder, patting it lightly. "Take it from me, Clydas, you shouldn't allow yourself any more wrinkles than necessary. Unless you think I can't so much as wrap a bandage…"

The steward drew his brows together, then yawned once more. Looking at a fidgety Jon, he sighed. "No, of course. By your leave, Maester."

"Good night to you, old friend," Aemon said. His head didn't turn to note Clyda's exit, though it did twitch at the sound of the closing door. His wrinkled lip rose up in a genial smile. "Well then, Snow, it seems you're stuck with this old skeleton. Or would you have me call you Jon?"

_"Snow! Snow!"_

Jon started, having forgotten the raven perched on the window. Aemon only chuckled, voice scratchy.

"Oh my," he said, "it seems our Lord Commander forgot to take his pet."

Jon stared at the bird, feeling the creature's black eyes staring back, head turning from side to side in spasms. "Jon is fine," he said.

The boy watched Aemon reach for the jar. The aged fingers fumbled around, sliding across the wooden surface before finding the glass. When they did, Aemon grabbed it confidently, hands expertly popping it open and dabbing into the ointment.

"Come closer, then."

Jon felt uncomfortable all throughout as Aemon smeared the greenish salve over his shoulder. The moment it touched his wound, Jon felt an eerie cool drift in like ice through his skin. The cool seeped into his bones, and to his awe the pain which had consistently spiked through him receded, his whole arm and chest falling into unfeeling, as if it all simply stopped existing.

"Strange substance, isn't it?" Aemon said, as if having gleamed the perplexion in Jon's face. "Made in Lys. Even if I knew the recipe, the northern countryside doesn't quite lend itself to alchemy."

"It's something, alright."

Aemon began wrapping his shoulder in bandages, fingers shockingly dexterous for their thin age. The maester reached the knot sooner than even Clydas had.

"A very peculiar series of events," Aemon said. "Though I suppose they might also be called rather mundane, all things considered. What a shame."

Head bowed, Jon looked at his hands. They still held some dried blood, though nowhere near what they'd had before his wounds were cleaned.

"He told me he just wanted to run away," Jon said. "Edwen, I mean. Those were his last words."

"Hm. Do you regret killing him?" Aemon asked.

"No." The answer came fast, enough that Jon surprised himself with its truth. Still, the tightness didn't leave his chest. "But… I wish he wouldn't have needed to die. I wish Kale and Pyp didn't die. I wish…"

_"Wish! Wish!"_

His hands curled into fists. "Why… Why must people die for nothing?"

Aemon finished the knot. He slouched back, leaning back on his cane. "Tell me if it's too tight."

Jon shook his head, then remembered the maester couldn't see. "It's fine," he said.

"Good. Would you please snuff out the candles on your way out? Wouldn't want a fire."

Jon slid off the table and, much to his pleasure, was able to stand without only a slight tremble of the knees. He felt stronger, even if half his torso didn't feel anything at all. He walked around the room, blowing out the tiny flames and shrouding the place in descending darkness.

As he did, Aemon shuffled to his bed across the room. He sat on it with a long, drawn sigh, resting and listening to Jon's footsteps.

"The gods are cruel," he said. "Both the old and the new. But they do have a knack for beauty." As the last candle flame blew out in thin white smoke, his leathery face turned toward the window. "Just look."

Moonlight beamed through the tall frame, casting the room in a soft, teal glow. Jon walked closer, looking out through its thick glass. It had stopped snowing, but now the ground and trees were coated with sleek white blankets, the light casting off them in crystalline waves. Even the castle walls to the south, manned listlessly by a single brother of the Watch, looked quiet and still as the forest. He'd not noticed the moon out, not until the candlelight faded.

"Pretty isn't it? I do wish I could see it," Aemon said. He turned to Jon, eyes murky but eerily piercing. "But wishes are for children. What do you want, and what can you do? _That_ is the domain of men."

Jon looked south. He wondered what Winterfell might look like now. Staring out the window, he kept wondering, and after enough time had to cede to the weight of his eyelids. He turned to Aemon, unsure.

"Don't mind me, Jon," the maester said, bending down to remove his boots. "Have a good night. I shouldn't have to say, but try not to lie on your bad side."

"Aye," Jon glanced up. "And, ah… the raven?"

"Oh, it's alright. I'm sure he's just looking for a quiet place too. Isn't that right?"

The bird straightened, wings spread and flapping. _"Right! Right!"_

"Very well then, Maester Aemon. Thank you." Jon walked to the door, turning one last time to see the old man lying on the bed, lifting the sheets. As he left, he closed the door softly behind him, careful not to disturb the quiet of the midnight castle.

Two days later, Benjen found him at the stables, struggling to strap his things to the saddle with only a single arm. The huffing of horses rattled through the wooden shack, and hay lay haphazardly in piles, something which would have to get cleaned up later. Reaching him, the man took Jon's bedroll and furs from his shaking hand, packing it onto Steelfoot's croup with a small heave.

"Thanks," Jon said. He took the scabbard from his hip and strapped it onto the saddle as well. "Though I'll have to get used to doing it one-handed by myself."

"Only for a while." Benjen looked at Jon's sword. "Hand-and-a-half?" He smiled at that, ruffling Jon's hair even as the boy ducked out of his grasp. "I appreciate the irony, but you might want to find yourself a lighter one. Anything could happen out on the road."

Jon chuckled. "I'll be sure to tell Mikken. Mayhaps he'll make me a kitchen knife."

Benjen looked at him for a moment, then reached for his belt. After some fiddling, he held up his own blade, presenting it to Jon, who watched on in casual bemusement.

"An arming sword?" Jon asked. He took it, roaming the back leather sheathe, hand wrapping snuggly around its handle from cross-guard to pommel. The blade was one-handed, barely longer than his own arm.

"Close. A two-foot sword, or a ranger's sword, if you go by _our_ terminology." Benjen watched his nephew examine the weapon, arm's crossed. "Trekking through the forest gets tiring as it is without a cumbersome hunk of steel at your hip. Not to mention fighting amongst brambles and twigs could get complicated with your standard blade."

With a twinge from his hurt shoulder, he pulled and the blade slid out with a sharp scratch of steel, revealing a fuller carved straight down the flat, almost to the tip. It was a simple thing, perhaps too simple, though its guard was smaller than Jon was used to.

Jon unsheathed it completely, holding it at arm's length. He swung it experimentally, feeling more like he was swinging a twig than a steel-forged blade.

"It's like I'm hardly holding anything," he said.

"That's the idea."

"I've seen them on you crows, but never got a chance at a closer look." Jon sheathed the sword, holding it out to his uncle. "Forget the kitchen knife, I might just get myself one of these."

"Or you could keep that one," Benjen said, not reaching for it. His smile widened at Jon's slow comprehension, and he held up a hand when the boy looked to dispute. "I insist. It'll keep you safe, as it has kept me for all these years. That and… I'd be heartened if you had something by which to remember your days here, short as they were."

Jon looked at the sword, then at Benjen. Finally, he went to strap it onto his saddle, just beside his own. Without a word, he turned and hugged his uncle.

"I'll remember," he said.

After some astonishment, Benjen returned the sentiment. "Is there anything that could convince you to stay?"

"Ha. Maybe a thousand gold dragons." Jon pulled back, hand reaching to his horse. "I thought you didn't want me here in the first place."

"I didn't. At first." He watched Jon climb onto the horse, black cloak billowing with the motion. "But I spoke too soon. You fit well here."

They left the stables out into the yard, where the day had begun in earnest. Brothers strode by in groups of twos and threes, some toward the hall for a late breakfast, others toward the elevator to start their shift up on the Wall. A few of the recruits had already started to shovel out the snow under the watchful eye of Ser Thorne, freeing some space for arms training and dumping the excess onto chest-high piles. Among them were Grenn and Sam, who at seeing Jon dropped their shovels and ran over to him. Thorne of course began to sputter some warnings, but at Benjen's halting hand he settled for a spiteful glare before shouting louder at those who remained.

"Leaving so soon, Lord Snow?" Grenn said. He'd begun to smile some again, a stark difference from even the day before, and now sported a full smirk up at the mounted boy. "I always knew you'd think yourself too good for this place!"

Not long ago, Jon might've hidden his offense behind an icy mask. Now, he heard the jest for what it was. "I stayed so as to not make you jealous," he said, making an effort to look smug. "But I've only one life, and I'll not spend it on this rock."

"Eh, it grows on you. Like frostbite, but it grows." Grenn offered a hand up at Jon. "Good luck out there."

Jon leaned down and they clasped arms. "Save some of it for yourself." They grinned at each other, then Jon turned to the other recruit. "And you, Sam? Thought over my offer?"

Sam straightened, scratching at his thin, patchy beard. They'd all ragged him for it, but to his credit Sam had kept growing it nevertheless. "I did," he said, nervously. "Truly, I did, but it wouldn't be right for me to give up on this quite so easily. Er, not that _you're_ giving it up easily, or even at all! Urgh…"

"Don't worry, I understand what you're saying." Jon offered the larger boy his hand. When Sam took it, Jon tightened his grip, smile softening. "You're a brave man, Sam. Try not to let these reprobates tell you any different."

"We'll treat Piggy with all the dignity he deserves," Grenn said, throwing an arm around the lordling's shoulders. "You come visit one day, Lord Snow. We'll shock you with our manners."

"Don't let me go on a lie," Jon said, voice dry. He let Sam's arm drop, hands wrapping around the reins of his horse. He looked at Benjen, who had stood silently during their farewells, and the man winked back. Nodding, Jon raised a hand at the three of them. "Until next time, then."

"Farewell, Jon," Benjen said. Stepping forward, he held out a rolled up piece of parchment. "Don't forget to write?"

Jon paused, then took it and stuffed it into one of his saddlebags.

"Never," he said.

With a kick, Jon drove his horse to a canter toward the castle gates. Sitting on their own horses, Tyrion and his guard watched him near. Yoren, the wandering crow who would be joining them on their way south, sat saddled nearby, talking to some of his own fellows.

Lord Commander Mormont was there, to finish some business and say his own farewells. It wasn't every day that a high lord came up for a visit, and it was even rarer for one to promise his support. Tyrion, of course, had taken full advantage of the good graces this offered him.

"Took you long enough," the dwarf said as Jon neared. "I never thought you'd be the sentimental type."

"Oh, stuff it." Jon said, pulling on the reins.

Mormont chuckled. "It's not easy to say goodbye to family." He turned to the Lannister. "Farewell Lord Tyrion. You were a funny sort."

"And you weren't nearly as dour as the rest of these grim northmen, thank the Gods for that." Tyrion turned his horse around, trotting to the gates. "Two days to Winterfell, Jon! Let's not make it any longer. And you, crow, let's get a move on now!"

Jon readied to follow, but before he could Mormont reached up to pat his horse on the neck.

"It's a shame, really," the Lord Commander said. "We could've used another good man on the Wall."

"You've many already," Jon said.

"It's never enough. But be seeing you, Snow."

Jon nodded. "Give Maester Aemon my farewell."

"I've a feeling he already knows, but worry not," With a final pat, Mormont stepped out of the way, hand waving. "May the gods light your way."

Giving the castle one final look, Jon found Ronald by the doors to the hall, looking at him over the yard. He raised a hand, the man returning it, before turning to trot out after his departing party. Jyck, Morrec and Yoren were already muttering amongst themselves, deep into some discussion he couldn't begin to place, so he pulled up alongside Tyrion ahead of them. They crossed the gates and rode along the road.

"You know, for a second there I was convinced you'd stay," Tyrion said. "Just a second, of course. But still, what changed your mind? No more honor to be found here at the Wall?"

"There's plenty," Jon said. He glanced at the short man, noting the special saddle built seemingly for Tyrion and Tyrion alone. "Don't take this the wrong way, but do you ever wish you weren't a dwarf? Surely you must, every once in a while."

Tyrion hummed, facing forward. "Once in a while, yes, I'll admit it." He glanced at Jon, smirking. "But then I recall all the tits I've fondled regardless, and decide self-pity isn't worth the effort. We all must work with what we have."

Jon laughed. "I agree," he said. Then, softening, he gazed at the road stretched out before them. He breathed in the morning chill. His smile dropped, and all Jon could feel was a mixed calm. "I always wished I wasn't a bastard. The Watch didn't care, not truly, and I thought that there I could make a name for myself. And I could. I think so, anyway."

"Not exactly surrounded by immense competition," Tyrion said.

Jon scowled at the man, who merely shrugged in response. The boy sighed.

"I suppose you're right in a way," he said. "Everyone at the Watch is there because they've nothing left to lose. Even the ones who didn't come in shackles." Shaking his head, Jon's eyes returned to the road. "But I've plenty to lose still. To pretend otherwise would be easy, but it wouldn't be right. I won't run away anymore. If I'm to be a bastard, I'll do it south of the Wall where it matters. Everyone else will just have to accommodate it."

Tyrion looked straight at him, a glint in his eye. Nodding, he seemed to gain energy with each clop of his horse. "And what will a bastard south of the Wall do, then? I can't imagine it'd be very interesting."

"My father told me that next time we'd meet, he'd finally tell me about my mother," Jon said. "I figured I might as well take him up on his offer, if sooner than we both expected."

"Sounds like a quest!"

"If you can consider a simple ride down the Kingsroad a quest, I suppose I've met your expectations." He grinned at Tyrion. "Speaking of which, I find myself at a distinct lack of faithful companions. And while Jyck and Morrec might be good for a laugh or two, you seem like a dwarf in need of matching wits."

"I'll have you know, bastard, there's none with a wit to match mine," Tyrion said, returning the smile. "But a scarce resource shouldn't be taken for granted, and I suppose you've enough relative to everyone else."

"Spoken like a true Lannister. Your greed knows no bounds."

"We in civilized society call it resourcefulness. You northerners still stand to learn much, it seems." Tyrion looked around them then, eyes roaming the tree line. "And what of your direwolf? Don't tell me you've left your pet behind."

Amused, Jon nodded his head just behind the dwarf. "Look for yourself."

Tyrion turned in his saddle to see Ghost prowling behind them, weaving between trees, red eyes stuck on their party in stoic vigilance. His white fur seemed invisible against the snow, and at some moments Tyrion could place him by the eyes alone.

"That's simply terrifying," Tyrion said.

"It takes some getting used to."

The two continued to chat in that manner. Ghost followed after them in silence, leaving his own paw prints on the snow, and by nightfall he joined them at their fire, eating from Jon's hand, feeling the cold pull back from his fur on their way south.

* * *

**The tale continues...**

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Again, the series is split into several parts, so this is just the first of what is looking to be a fairly long story. Considering that this part functioned primarily to set up the story's major themes and start Jon's development, I'd say it'll probably end up being the shortest of all.
> 
> I would love to know what you think. Thank you all for reading.


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